Till Death Do Us Part
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: Plot Bunny Challenge! The pressures of state bring Prince Arthur to the point of madness, forcing him to take drastic action to save himself. Actions that have devastating consequences in the future. Arthur/Catherine, Henry VIII/Catherine/Anne Boleyn. Completed!
1. The Winter of Discontent

**Author's Note:** This fic is a response to Birdman45's plot bunny challenge. So full credit to him for the plot! I own none of these characters, events, or the TV show. Needless to say, this is totally alternate universe.

**Full Summary:** Prince Arthur is collapsing under the weight of his family's expectations. The pressure is slowly bringing him to the point of madness, until an idea for freedom forms in his head. An idea that, even if successful, could have devastating ramifications later down the line.

Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Winter of Discontent (Part I). <strong>

The storms had been lashing the coast for weeks by the time Catherine finally arrived in England. Like a broken doll, she had been carried ashore by one of the English gentlemen who had sailed with her, as she was too weak from the prolonged sea sickness to walk. Arthur knew how she felt all too well. Sometimes, when he thought of his future, he too wanted to collapse and rely on others to carry him ashore.

Over the course of the next painful weeks, he had painted on the smile and bore the weight of expectation like a true professional. He extended every courtesy, paid every compliment, and graciously allowed his younger brother to upstage him at his own wedding. Just like he had been trained to do.

"Have you ever seen such capering!" laughed King Henry as he watched the Duke of York frolic with Princess Catherine, following the wedding feast.

All eyes were on Prince Harry that night, including Arthur's. He felt a weight shift in his stomach as his watched the two of them dance, and a certain unacknowledged truth formed in his mind as he noted the way that Harry gazed up at Catherine. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but Harry wanted her. A child of ten, but one undeniably in command of himself, and in command of the crowds who adored him.

The end of the wedding feast could not have come quick enough. The whole charade had left him tired, emotionally void, and sick to the stomach. All of his short years had been spent bearing the weight of expectation. He was the hope of the future, the promise of a new dawn and representative of a purely notional new world that he and Catherine were expected to build. But as they left for Ludlow, travelling beneath the leaden skies, he knew that all he could do was disappoint. The more he realised how much was expected of him; the further he withdrew into the shell of his own mind. One day, he knew, he would withdraw so far inside his mind, he might never find his way out again.

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><p>"Are you all right?" he asked Catherine once they were seen safely to bed on their first night at Ludlow. It was feeble, but it was all he could think of. Catherine looked back at him, wide eyed with incomprehension. Her English was still bad.<p>

"My Lord," she replied with a smile. Her linen night cap was on, and she lay back with the satin quilt pulled up to her chin. She was just two big blue eyes staring up him. "You are well?"

He lay down beside her, and although he knew that all he had to do was reach out and touch her, he felt a barrier between them. A glass barrier that only he knew about. A frown marred her features, she was trying to read his mind, and find out what's on it.

"It will be all right," he tried to assure her.

He turned away on his side. Two strangers sharing a bed. Worse still, he knew that she sensed it, too. His father expected grandchildren, and he expected them soon. But Arthur simply closed his eyes and slipped into a turbulent sleep. A sleep filled with dreams that blurred at the edges, showing him visions of the things he could never be. He awoke several times, grateful that Catherine slept on, oblivious to the storm that was raging in his head. She was beautiful. There was no denying that. But, he knew that he could never give her the things she needed. He could never be like Harry. That was always the last thing on his mind when he slipped back into his restless sleep.

With the awkward tension of their fist night finally dispelled, Catherine and Arthur settled into their own routine. At nights, they retired to their own separate chambers, and during the day they sat side by side at the Privy Council table, to discuss all the matters of their small "kingdom". Arthur hid his doubts, and veiled his fears beneath the veneer of state. He simply carried on regardless.

With the help of a Tutor, Catherine's English improved, prompting Arthur to write to King Ferdinand, thanking him for sending her unto him. Even as he set down his quill to seal the letter, he realised that Catherine had become another function of state in his world. The glass barrier remained; he could see through it clearly, but it was a barrier nonetheless. If anything, it seemed to expand, and cut him adrift from all those around him. They could see him as well as he could see them, but he was still out of reach.

Not long after he despatched the letter his Groom, Anthony Willoughby, appeared in his Privy Chamber. He bowed low to the Prince.

"Your Grace," he greeted him formally, although they had known each other for years.

"Sir Anthony," Arthur bid him rise.

Normally, the sight of an old friend would have cheered him. But these days, Willoughby was just another face to satisfy. He had bragged to Willoughby of his bedroom exploits with Catherine, and it was an experience that had left a bitter taste in Arthur's mouth. It was another demonstration of Arthur's own weakness, and he almost hated Willoughby for exposing it in him.

"Your Grace, there has been an outbreak of sweating sickness in the town," he informed Arthur gravely.

Arthur set the letter to Ferdinand down on the desk in front of him. "How many dead?"

"Nearly forty dead in the main town, Your Grace," replied Willoughby. "It is set to rise higher still."

Arthur closed his eyes, and took a deep, steadying, breath. He remembered reading about Edward III, who defied the threat of the black death, and rode amongst his people despite the dangers posed. The sweating sickness was just as deadly as black death, and Arthur knew the old saying: merry at breakfast, dead by dinner time. The contagion was swift, and merciless. It cut down the weak, and the strong. Young and old alike.

"Anthony," Arthur said, fixing the Groom with a sharp eye. "I will ride out to the Town myself, and assess the situation-"

"I would advise against that, Your Grace," he quickly cut the Prince off.

But Arthur was not to be deterred. "Please, Anthony," he implored. "These are my people, and they need me."

There was a long silence, during which Anthony realised that resistance was futile.

"Very well, Your Grace."

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><p>That night, Arthur sat in the window of his private chambers. Out in the distance, he could see tiny pin pricks of light from a hundred small fires that had been lit. The people would be burning the clothes and linens of the dead, or lighting herb fires to ward the ill humours off in a desperate attempt to stay safe. Cumulatively, the flames caused a faint orange glow in the dark night.<p>

But the Prince was not really watching them. He gripped a goblet of warmed wine in one hand, and chewed absent mindedly at the nail of his index finger on the other. A seed of a thought had taken root at the back of his mind. At first, he tried to dismiss it, and pushed the thoughts away. But they kept coming back, bigger and stronger than before.

Agitated, he paced the floor, trying to shake himself free of his own thoughts. He tried to think of the consequences, but the benefits soon rode roughshod over that. He looked at the distant fires, still burning through the night, and thought of freedom. In a fit of anxiety, he sent again for Anthony Willoughby, the one person who he could still almost count as a friend.

Anthony appeared, sleep befuddled but fully dressed, not twenty minutes later.

"Your Grace," he swept a bow to Arthur. "You summoned me."

"Anthony, I need your help," Arthur set down his goblet, and steered Anthony to the window embrasure. "I need you to get me out of here."

"What? Now?" Anthony frowned, and tried to gather his wits. "It's a bit late-"

"No!" Arthur retorted. "Not now, tomorrow. For good."

Anthony mentally shook himself. "Arthur, please. Think about what you're saying, and try to make some sense."

For a moment, Arthur wanted to slap him. Instead, he took a deep breath and started at the beginning.

"I want you to write to my father, and tell him I have the sweating sickness," he explained. "Then tell my physicians I have it, too. While they are tending to me, you will have time to go into the town, and bring me the body of someone who is my age, height, and has my colouring. There must be scores of them. We shall dress the body in my clothes, and he can be passed off as me. Given the virility of the illness, the physicians will not look too closely, anyway."

Anthony was rigid with shock, but Arthur could sense his mind working. No one knew him as well as Anthony, and he had sensed the black moods that had descended on Arthur recently. But still, Arthur could see he needed persuading.

"Help rescue me, please," he pleaded. "You know I cannot do what they all want me to do."

"This is insanity..." Willoughby's words trailed off, and he backed away until Arthur seized him by the shoulders.

"It will be insanity if I get the throne," he insisted. "Can't you see? I am begging you, Anthony. Please, I cannot do this any more."

"Where will you go?" he asked, in a daze.

"Say you will help me."

Anthony shrugged Arthur off, and turned away. His mind was in a whirl. His loyalty was to Arthur. Above and beyond anything, Arthur was his master. His master needed help, and he was duty bound to give it. Slowly, he turned to Arthur, and gave an uncertain nod of his head. A chasm of doubt opened up inside of him, and terrified the wits out of him. But all the same, his sense of duty overrode his fears.

"I am yours to command."


	2. Winter of Discontent Part II

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments are very much appreciated, so thank you again! I own none of these characters, events, or the TV show. The plot was not my concept, either (thanks to Birdman45 for that).

Please read and review!

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Winter of Discontent (Part II).<strong>

The candles in the Privy Chamber were lit, in an attempt to relieve the gloom of the lightless day. Catherine sat at the table, picking at some wheaten bread and honey, while her ladies looked on in silence. They had only ever heard talk of the sweating sickness; it was a disease unheard of beyond England. Now, it was on their doorstep, and the worry showed in every face in the chamber. Already, two regular servants had succumbed to the illness, and all were braced for more.

Prince Arthur paused in the doorway of the gallery that connected their bed chamber to the Privy Chamber, and watched them for a moment. Anthony had dressed him in his out door cloak, and riding boots. Now, as part of their plan, he needed Catherine to see him leave the Castle, to see him visiting an infected area of their lands. He drew in a deep breath, and cleared his throat to get her attention.

"My Lady," he bowed to her as she turned her face to where he stood. "You're well?"

Catherine dropped the bread that was in her hand, and dipped her sticky fingers in the small dish of water at the side of her plate.

"My Lord, will you join us?" she asked, her eyes were wide and eager.

"I cannot, I'm sorry," replied Arthur as he bent down to kiss her cheek. "I must go out for an hour. I will not leave you for long, I promise."

Her face fell a little; her eager smile replaced with a frown of concern. He could guess what she was thinking, but she was too much the dutiful wife to question him. She glanced downwards for a moment, as she gathered herself.

"Please, be careful husband."

That was all she said. Arthur looked at her, and felt a painful jolt at his heart. For a moment he considered the possibility of taking her with him. They could both play dead, then run away together and lead the life they both deserve. One free from the constraints of state and government. They could be happy, just the two of them. But as soon as the idea flared, it fizzled out and died. He knew that he was already being selfish, and taking Catherine with him would only be doubling that. A sad smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, he kissed her again, and said his goodbyes.

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><p>Anthony was outside with horses saddled, ready to go. As Arthur emerged through the entrance, he got up off the low wall he was sat on, and mounted the horse at his side. The day was over cast, the threat of rain heavy in the air. The colour drained from the land. Arthur surveyed it all bleakly.<p>

"God has forsaken this land," he grumbled, by way of greeting, to Anthony. "What news from the town?"

"Another sixty dead, Your Grace. Now the outlying villages have been affected."

As Arthur suspected, the spread of the disease was intensifying. Soon, it would sweep across the whole of the country, leaving a trail of dead and dying in its wake. They called it the "Tudor Curse"; unfairly since it first struck during the reign of King Richard. Arthur mounted his horse, and soon he and Anthony were cantering through the gates of Ludlow, and out into the open countryside beyond the walls.

They rode as far as the stream that flowed through the bog lands, and supplied the local town with their water supply. There, out of sight of sight of the Castle, they dismounted again. From here, they could see the town itself, without getting too close to the affected areas. Hazy wood smoke mingled with the marsh mists that drifted in thin, wispy, clouds on the breeze. Another shade of grey to add to the pallet of the bleak landscape that made up the valleys of Wales.

Arthur's gaze alighted on a wide open pit in the earth. A mass grave, soon to be filled with the spent victims of the disease that ravaged the towns and villages. If he breathed in deep, he could catch the scent of quick lime and sulphur on the breeze. It made his stomach churn.

"God have mercy on them," Arthur whispered as he nuzzled his horse close.

"So say we all, Your Grace," Anthony replied, a sadness in his eyes as he took in the devastating panorama that rolled off in all directions. "Don't go down there, Your Grace. It's too dangerous."

"I won't. I just needed Catherine to see me go," he explained. "We'll stay out here for an hour, and no more. I will speak to Catherine when I get back, so she will know I am home. When evening comes, I will send for you again and tell you I am sick. Fetch the physicians to my chambers, then get into the town. I need a body."

Anthony inwardly recoiled at the task ahead of him. He had his duty bred into him as much as the next Knight. But this? This was going above and beyond anybody's call of duty.

"If I catch the contagion doing this," said Anthony with a wry smile. "I'll come back and haunt you, wherever you are!"

"I'll welcome your ghost with open arms," replied Arthur. "Wherever I end up."

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><p>Catherine was at prayer when Arthur returned to the Castle. He had to wait outside the Chapel for her to finish her devotions before he could see her. During the wait, he found himself thinking of reasons to bring her with him. Delivered from the pressures of State, he knew that he could love her, and she him. But, underneath that devotion, beneath that veneer of placidity, she was a Princess, and fully accustomed to her station in life. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift downstream. In a different time, a different place, living other lives, they could have been happy. They could have been normal.<p>

"Husband," Catherine greeted him, rosary still entwined in her fingers, as she emerged from the Chapel. "You are well?" She looked at him so intensely it was though she were already looking for signs of illness in him.

"I am fine," he assured her. "I just wanted to let you know of my return. But, I am tired. I will see you again at supper."

She looked up at him, her face pale and round, her eyes of sapphire that glittered in the flickering light of the beacons set in the brackets on the walls. He ran his hands through her lustrous auburn hair, tucking the loose strands behind her ears. He committed every last detail to memory, kissed her cheek and walked away. He could not look back.

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><p>The gloom outside the window intensified into a darkness that blotted out the day. Reports of fatalities poured in, the numbers growing by the hour now. But once the evening drew in, Arthur dismissed all of his servants and grooms, leaving him alone to prepare for his escape. He set warming pans inside his bed, to make it as hot as possible. He used a smudge of soot from beneath the chimney breast to darken his eyes, a little to rub on the eye itself; making them red and watery with irritation.<p>

Anthony was sent for, and he let himself into the chamber at eight o'clock in the evening. He added the finishing touches by mopping the Prince's brow in hot, damp water. He let the water penetrate the Prince's dark hair, making it cling to his scalp.

"Are you ready?" Anthony asked.

Arthur looked up at him between the dampened bedsheets, and nodded. "Fetch the physicians."

Anthony bowed, and backed away from the room without another word. His moment had come, and if they were caught out now, there would be hell to pay with the King and the Council.

Arthur listened as Anthony's footsteps receded down the passageway outside, and immediately turned on his side to affect unconsciousness. Not ten minutes later, the physicians were swarming around the room. They had cloths dipped in medicated water wrapped around the lower halves of their faces. A desperate measure people often took to ward off the ill humours of the sweat.

From across the room, the Physicians tried to make contact with Arthur. As he had predicted, none of them wanted to get too close to him. He merely mumbled incoherently, and kept his eyes tight shut. He willed with all his heart that they would quickly give up and go away. But, they held out longer than he thought they would. One of them even dared to approach and measure his pulse.

That, however, was the end of their intrusion. Once they had gone, Arthur rolled over on to his back, and looked out of his window. Outside, a full moon shone high in the night sky. He looked up at it, shining indifferently on the lands below it, and lost himself in a train of thought. His mind drifted over everything he was leaving behind. His mother, his wife, and even Harry, Mary and Margaret. He would never see them again. He closed his eyes to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks. He loved them all, even his father; he had to leave them all the same. He could stay and be pulled under, or go and be free to live his life. There was no choice.

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><p>Anthony had been searching for almost three hours before he found what he had been looking for. The boy was the same age as Arthur, his hair was black and hung to shoulder length in waves. His skin was pale, like Arthur's, and closer inspection showed that he had the same vividly blue eyes. Or at least the corpses eyes would have been vivid, if he wasn't a corpse.<p>

Anthony covered his hands with the gloves he'd taken from the stables, and hauled the body into the barrow taken from the gardens. Feeling utterly repulsed, he hauled the body back to the Castle, and hid it in the empty chapel while he waited for servants entrances and corridors to empty for the night.

Dragging the body up several flights of back stairs, up a narrow spiralling staircase, was heavy work. Half way up, Anthony stopped to consider the Knight's code again, This was definitely not in it, but his loyalty to Arthur was absolute. Not wanting Arthur to actually see his deceased doppelgänger, he left it in the outer chamber, covered in a shroud liberated from the chapel, just in case any late night servant chanced upon it. It was almost two in the morning.

Arthur was already up and about when Anthony re-entered the Chamber. He was pulling a clean pair of breeches on. A clean shirt was already on his back. He whirled around as Anthony entered the room.

"Is it done?" he asked, all wide eyed anticipation.

"It is, Your Grace," replied Anthony with a bow. "Please, let me wash, I feel disgusting."

Anthony did not wait for an answer. He crossed the room, his face screwed up in revulsion, and splashed hot water over his face and hands, rubbing at his skin vigorously. Arthur watched him, and the guilt swelled inside him. He had put his most loyal friend in grave danger.

"I am sorry, Anthony," Arthur said. "If anything does happen … I'll never forgive myself."

"It won't. I will be fine."

For a moment, the two of them looked at each other; trying to find the right words to say as the moment of departure drew near. Anthony glanced about the room as though looking for something. The reality was that he wanted to hide the tears that now shone in his eyes.

"The Physicians," said Anthony. "They fell for it?"

"As I thought, they did not even want to get close enough to check properly," Arthur explained as he distracted himself from his own emotions by throwing a cloak over his shoulders. "Well, it is time to go."

"I packed this for you," Anthony said as he reached into a cupboard and produced a satchel. "There is food and a skein of wine in it. Some clothes, too."

Arthur thanked him and took the bag, into which he added some valuable gold jewellery. It could be sold for much needed cash on the road. The vast majority of his belongings, however, he would have to leave behind. The dead don't take anything with them, and he knew that everything would have to be accounted for after his "funeral".

Anthony led the way back down the back stairs, towards the rear exit of the Castle. Occasionally, Arthur would have to duck into an alcove to avoid a night guard or wandering servant. As he passed the Princess's chambers, his heart gave a painful jolt. He could just make out the muffled voices from the opposite side of her door. Her thick Spanish accent, her ladies laughing at some in joke they shared. Anthony saw him, saw the look in his eyes.

"It is not too late to back out, Your Grace," he said.

Arthur thought of it, and for a second he was tempted. But, he knew that he would never have another chance like this one. A chance he knew he had to seize with both hands. He shook his head, and they carried on until they were out in the open yard. Arthur's horse was already saddled, courtesy of Anthony's forward planning. Once he was mounted, Arthur pulled a gold ring from his index finger. It was encrusted with diamonds and small rubies.

"Take this," he said, leaning down from his mount to push it in Anthony's hands. "Sell it, or remember me by it."

"Your Grace, I-"

"No," Arthur cut him off. "Take it for your trouble, and loyalty to me. Tell them I was buried with it, though."

Anthony closed his hand over the ring, and looked up into Arthur's face. Already, the burden seemed lifted from his young shoulders. He took the horse's bridle, and started leading him towards the gates in a final act as a servant to his master.

"You never did tell me where you are headed, Your Grace."

"Wherever the road takes me," answered Arthur. "I'll know when I get there."

They stopped at the gates. Anthony let go of the bridal. His duties were over. Almost.

"One more thing, Anthony. Look after Princess Catherine and her Ladies. I think your brother, William, is more than interested in Maria de Salinas. Make sure they're all made happy when I am gone."

"Gladly, Your Grace," he replied solemnly. "And Arthur, whatever happens, know that I will take your secret to the grave, so long as you swear to stay safe."

"I so swear," he replied.

Briefly, they clasped hands, and Anthony slapped the horse's hind quarter, making it move off. He watched as Arthur Tudor, former Prince of Wales, rode out into the cold March night, slipping into the darkness, and out of sight.


	3. The End Of The Road

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I really do appreciate your comments. Also, I should mention here that there is a big jump forwards in history for this chapter, and I'm cutting straight to the trial. By way of disclaimer, I'd like to state that I own none of these characters, the plot, or the TV show.

Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Three: The End Of The Road.<span> **

**1528**

King Henry paused in the doorway, and watched as Queen Catherine's ladies all dipped into curtseys before scattering into the outer galleries. Once they were gone, he approached her in steps that were as measured as the thoughts that crowded his mind. The Queen watched him, pretending for all she was worth that everything was normal between them, and this was just another of Henry's afternoon visits. She set down the small prayer book that was clasped in her hands, and got up to kiss his cheek. As her lips made contact with his face, she felt his body stiffen.

"Your Majesty," she greeted him, ignoring his apparent revulsion. "Have you come to dine-"

"Catherine, please," he talked over her, but softly enough. "Sit down. We need to talk."

Catherine swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, and stood by his side as they walked into the small ante chamber where they often took their meals together. Or at least where they used to take their meals, before Anne Boleyn came along. But Catherine did not think of her. She could only think about getting herself through the next few minutes of tortured conversation with the her husband. She knew what was coming; had been expecting it for months in fact. But now that the moment had arrived, she could feel the fear, feel the reality dawning.

They each took a seat opposite one another around a small table. They placed their hands in front of themselves, their pose a mirror of the other. Their eyes met across the small space that divided them, just like they used to when they were both young. For a few tense moments there was a loaded silence between them as they each struggled to find the right words to say. Finally, it was Henry who broke the silence.

"I want to be straight with you, Catherine," he said. "After many months of study, I have come to believe that our marriage is unlawful. That God is punishing me for marrying my brother's wife, and that we must dissolve this unlawful union, and begin our lives afresh. Of course, you can chose where you wish to live, and you shall want for nothing in your honourable retirement, and you shall have our daughter, and all your household staff-"

Catherine had heard enough. If there was ever a time to let her devoted wife mask slip, then this was it. Eighteen years of marriage, and he was trying to pay her off like a common harlot.

"No!" she snapped as she pushed back her chair and stood up. "The Papal dispensations dealt with that. Our marriage was lawful in the eyes of the Holy Father, and in the eyes of God. What God has put together; no man can tear asunder!"

"Then why have we been cursed?" retorted Henry. "All our children, dead-"

"We have one child living!" Catherine interjected.

"A Girl!"

They went through the argument cycle, again. It was a well trodden path cut through a wilderness of bitter recrimination, and eighteen years of loss and regret. In the early years, they carried each other through the pain. Now the tables had turned, and they used each other as punch bags to vent their frustrations at nature's wanton injustice. But never had it come to this. No matter how badly they fell out, Henry had never mentioned divorce. Her spies had reported to her that the marriage was being looked into, in secret. But never had she heard it from Henry's own lips. Now he was saying it again, as if for good measure.

"In my eyes," he said. "This marriage is cursed by God; an unlawful match that must be annulled for all our sakes!"

Catherine's body stiffened with suppressed anger. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the table, and she fixed her husband with a cold, hard stare.

"No, I know why you are doing this," she hissed in a tight lipped rush. "That whore. That wanton little whore has you like this, and I will not have it, Henry. I will not be disposed of, and I will not be set aside for the likes of her!"

Henry sighed deeply in resignation. He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and held out his hands in placatory manner.

"If you will not see reason and do as you're told," he said. "Then I will not listen to these insults. Think on it, madam, and I pray you see reason. If you do not, we go to Court."

He was done. He had said his piece, spelled out his terms, and he left. Catherine watched him go, and waited for the soft click of the door closing behind him before she let her feelings show. Once he was out of the door, it became real. The shock and pain. This semi grief, became real and she let the flood waters break. Her cries so loud that even the King could hear them as he scurried back into the arms of his concubine.

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><p>Brother Cuthbert paused in the cloisters of the monastery, and looked out over their lands. To the south lay the vineyards, to the left was the shed where the cheese was made. Immediately in front of him were the fish ponds, where their carefully controlled stocks were monitored. There was a slaughterhouse for the cattle,which (before reaching the slaughterhouse) grazed the lustrous pasture lands to the rear of the building. Also, there were banks of green beans and turnip fields. The Monastery also boasted orchards, cherry trees, and an illegal coining factory. Although, Cuthbert didn't like to dwell on the coining factory. Over all, theirs was a well run, pious establishment, and completely self-sufficient.<p>

Therefore, it was with a degree of dismay that he observed an outsider riding towards their gates with a large portfolio under his arm. No doubt he was some stray builder, architect, or other Godless artisan looking for work. Or worse still, another criminal looking for sanctuary within their walls. However, he ruled the latter out when he watched the man dismount and approach the gate. There was something dignified in his demeanour. He held himself rather well. He was tall, slender, with a mop of black hair that was just greying at the temples. Brother Cuthbert placed his age at around early forties. Possibly a little older.

"Good day to you, Brother," the man called out to Cuthbert. "Would there be any chance of a meeting with the Prior?"

"I am afraid Prior Jenkins is busy, Sir," Cuthbert replied as he opened the gates to admit the caller. "But, if you have a while to spare, come on and wait for him. There is bread and mead for travellers here. Water and hay for your horse, too."

"I would be most grateful to you, Brother," the stranger said, a smile crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes. "My name's Oisin. Oisin Corry."

"Brother Cuthbert," the two men shook hands. "This way please."

Once the horse was stabled, the two men entered the monastic house. Cuthbert took the man to the kitchens, were a cook prepared wheaten bread, fresh baked. Butter and honey were already laid out on the trestle table. A jug of fresh mead was placed in the centre, and the two men were served by a young novice.

Oisin opened his portfolio, and produced a sheet of vellum that bore a large wax seal. He slid it across the table towards Cuthbert,.

"This is my letter of recommendation from the Dean of Salisbury Cathedral," he explained between mouthfuls of bread and honey. "Would be so kind as to pass it to the Prior?"

"Of course," Cuthbert assured him. He quickly skimmed over what was written there, and his eyes widened. "You're an accomplished linguist, and an illustrator of renown? Learned, pious, and morally upstanding?"

Oisin smirked. "I did some work for the Dean. Translated some texts, and compiled them all into an illuminated manuscript. Would like to see some of my other work?"

"Thank you, Master Corry."

Cuthbert glanced at the pages within the portfolio. Each smooth vellum sheet was a riot of colour. Heraldic beasts, looping columns that lined the borders, gold leaf foliage that marked out the margins. Maidens in long flowing gowns of blue and red held scrolls of Italianate text in their outstretched hands. It all came together as one great work of beautiful art. The images complimenting the words, and the words highlighting the images.

"This is really quite extraordinary," sighed Cuthbert. "You would like to do something like this for our monastery?"

"I hope so," Oisin replied, wiping his sticky fingers down the front of his tunic. His manners had really slipped since leaving home. "We'll have to wait and see what the Prior says."

"How can the Prior resist such beauty?"

Oisin hid his blushes, but he had been told before that he had a gift. Cuthbert, however, was still drinking in the illuminated texts in the portfolio. He stopped after a few minutes, and looked at Oisin thoughtfully.

"Do you know, Master Corry, of all the terrible things that are happening in our world at the moment, the thing I fear most is the destruction of Holy Beauty?"

Oisin looked politely puzzled. "Do you have cause to fear such a thing?"

"If the canker of Lutheranism reaches these parts, then all of this will be destroyed and swept away like last nights slops."

"I'm sure it won't come to that, Brother Cuthbert. King Henry is a pious man. A defender of the faith, no less."

"Don't you bank on that, Master Corry!" Cuthbert became rather impassioned as he vented his fears to Oisin. "They're already at our shores, these Lutheran types. They say Lady Anne is one of them."

"They say a lot of things about Lady Anne," said Oisin, magnanimously. "Anyway, the King will soon be tired of her, marry her to a Duke of his choosing. Just look at Bessie Blount, and the current Lady's elder sister, Mary."

Oisin was careful not to say too much about the Court. He hated sounding like he was "in the know". But, he could see by the look on Cuthbert's face that he could have been naked and he wouldn't have noticed.

"You mean you have not heard?" Cuthbert asked, dumbstruck. "The King is taking the Queen to Court, to try for annulment. He is actually going ahead with it."

"He cannot set Catherine aside!" Oisin guffawed. "The Emperor would be on our coast in a trice!"

Of course, Oisin thought to himself. Therein lies the problem. The Pope will not grant the divorce, because the Emperor is already threatening someone. That someone just happens to be the Pope himself. He was still at Salisbury when the sack of Rome occurred. It was an event that had appalled everyone. And although it had been many years since Oisin had involved himself in politics, he did not need to be a great statesman to work out these complications. Nor did Brother Cuthbert.

"So you see our problem, Master Corry? I speak no treason, but our King is seduced by the devil herself. No threat from the gracious Queen's nephew will deter him."

"But on what grounds can the King even sue for an annulment?"

"The Queen was married to Prince Arthur before he died, wasn't she?" Cuthbert answered. "You know what the Bible has to say about that."

"Really? Depends on who you read, doesn't it? Two chapters, two verses, and two entirely contradictory commands," Oisin replied, aware that he was getting close to sedition by picking holes in the word of God. But the contradiction was there for all to see. "Although, I grant you, the Pope did clear it up with the two dispensations."

"Well of course he did!" Cuthbert cried. "Two separate dispensations, for a consummated and non consummated marriage with the late Prince. But still the King is taking the Queen to trial. His Holiness has sent this Cardinal Campeggio to try the matter, and we all know which way it will go. Campeggio is no fool, and will put the safety of Rome far above and beyond the lust of our King."

"The Queen will be humiliated, even though King Henry knows that this matter is a lost cause?" Oisin muttered. "The King is no fool, either. He must know what will happen."

"It's more complex than that, Master Oisin. Cardinal Wolsey has promised the King his annulment, and the King trusts Wolsey above and beyond anyone else."

Oisin thought for a moment. "So, the Queen will be humiliated in front of all of England, Henry will be thwarted, Wolsey will probably be destroyed by his inevitable failure, the Lady will be left to wither on the vine, and the relationship between England and Rome could be damaged beyond repair."

In all his years of working in Monastic houses, Oisin knew well that there was no lack of enemies for Cardinal Wolsey. His pride, vainglory, and taste for the high life had not exactly endeared him to his Clerical colleagues. But there was no doubting the man's genius, flare, and pioneering methods of state. As for the Queen. That auburn haired dancing girl, with the bright blue eyes. Plump and pretty, and every inch the Queen she was destined to be. Oisin had to bite back his tears for her suffering.

"Are you all right, Master Corry?" Cuthbert asked. "You look rather pale all of a sudden."

"Oh, I am fine."

"Still, I shall go and see if the Prior is ready now."

Cuthbert rose from his seat and vacated the room. Oisin watched him leave, then gathered up the pages of his portfolio. Queen Catherine played on his mind. He had loved her; during their brief marriage. He had thought that his brother, Henry, loved her, too.

* * *

><p>The Cardinal's servants had done themselves proud. The high table was set with gold plates, and gold utensils. Platters of fresh fish, edged with basil and sprigs of fresh thyme. There were hot and cold meats on other platters, and tankards of the finest wines that the Cardinal had stored deep in cellars of York Place. On top of that, there was sugared Beef, Venison, and even some fine desserts.<p>

The Cardinal himself swept through the grand Hall, with his Secretary, Thomas Cromwell, at his side. He closely inspected some of the Venetian glasses himself, holding them up to the broad afternoon sunlight. They were all impeccable. He smiled his broad benevolent smile.

"This will have to do," he swept his arm around the spread. "Do you think the Lady will be pleased?"

"I wouldn't bet on it," Cromwell laughed. "She just wants one thing, and that's the annulment. This'll help, though!"

"Well, I have some gifts of a necklace and some fresh shrimp from my own ponds for her," Wolsey added. "She will be pleased. I am sure of it."

Cromwell made no reply. He'd known Wolsey for years now. He'd known him at the height of his powers, when the whole world formed itself to his liking at a click of his silk-gloved fingers. Now, he was scared. He did not often show it, but Cromwell could see it in his eyes. The flicker of dread whenever her name was mentioned, and almost imperceptible shadow of frustration that clouded his eyes whenever the great matter was mentioned. Wolsey's grip was loosening, he was slowly falling over a precipice and all Cromwell, and Cavendish (Wolsey's Gentlemen Usher) could do was watch. There was no one else to watch it, though. They were abandoning Wolsey like rats from a burning barn.

Just as Cromwell was thinking of Cavendish, the man himself appeared in the Great Hall.

"Your Eminence," he bowed to the Cardinal. "His Majesty the King, and Lady Anne Boleyn, have arrived."

Cromwell and Wolsey exchanged a glance, before Cavendish was instructed to show them in. Seconds later, they appeared, arm in arm in the Great Hall. Lady Anne dressed in a gown of blue and gold silk, her raven dark hair topped with a diamond encrusted French style hood. Henry dressed immaculately in cloth of gold, and fine silks and furs despite the unseasonal warmth.

"Your Majesty."

Wolsey and Cromwell chorused as they bowed low before the King. Servants materialised from the shadows, pulled out chairs, and seated their guests. The King and Lady Anne taking pride of place. Wolsey and Cromwell at their sides. Lady Anne turned her alluring coal black eyes on the Cardinal.

"This looks magnificent, Your Eminence," she said. "And thank you for your beautiful gifts. My family and I are most grateful to you."

"Oh yes, Thomas," Henry chipped in. "Nan was delighted. Look darling, there's some more of that lovely shrimp here. And tell me, who is this gentleman at Nan's side?"

"Ah, Master Thomas Cromwell, Your Majesty," the Cardinal replied.

Cromwell looked up at the King and Anne. "I have also been working on the great matter, Your Majesty," he explained.

"Oh I know master Cromwell, don't I?" Anne said as she smiled over at Cromwell, seated to her left. "I have seen you about the Cardinal's business on several occasions."

She rather enjoyed doing this. She and Cromwell had met in passing, usually during secret meetings of Reformers. Whatever it was he was doing there, it certainly was not on the Cardinal's business. But the men paid little heed to her off the cuff remarks. There was business to discuss.

"Master Cromwell has been making discreet enquiries," Wolsey explained. "Do tell His Majesty of your meeting with Anthony Willoughby."

Cromwell set down his glass, and began to explain. "Sir Anthony, as you know, was the late Prince's Groom. He told me that the night after they arrived in Wales, Prince Arthur entered the kitchen of Ludlow, and said to him: "Gentlemen, fetch me some wine, for it is thirsty work being in the midsts of Spain." Furthermore, Sir Anthony has kept the blood stained sheets that the marriage was consummated on."

"Excellent," said Henry. "Finally, we have evidence."

"Campeggio cannot ignore this," Wolsey added. "Not even the Pope can ignore this."

It was only Anne who did not look entirely convinced. "Under normal circumstances," she said. "Catherine wouldn't stand a chance. But the Emperor, her nephew, will not allow the Pope to annul the marriage. We cannot get around that."

"I think we should at least wait and see," Cromwell reasoned. "If Campeggio alone makes the decision, then we could just swing it. The Pope may dissociate himself from Campeggio's decision, and therefore avoid any consequences with the Emperor."

"I sincerely hope you're right, Master Cromwell," replied Anne. "For all our sakes."

"Also, we now have a date," Wolsey said, cutting across Anne's veiled warning.

"A date for the trial?" asked Henry, his eyes shining with excitement now.

"Yes," replied the Cardinal. "It will be next May, the thirty first day of that month."

Anne was satisfied. At last they had a solid date for the Legatine Court. Things were finally moving, instead of her being stuck listening to men arguing over little details. As they turned their attention to their food, the atmosphere lightened. Finally, they could all work towards something solid.


	4. A Woman Scorned

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments are greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. For the sake of simplicity, I will keep on using Arthur's alias until he makes his grand reappearance in London. Thanks again for the reviews, and for adding this story to alerts and favourites. Thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: A Woman Scorned.<strong>

Oisin set up his equipment in the far corner of the monastery's work shop. It was a large, open plan, space with light flooding in from vast, stained glass, windows. The walls were originally whitewashed, but years of activity, bumps and knocks, and chipped at the surface and greyed it to an off white stained hue. In stalls, monks worked in absolute silence as they copied out religious texts and bibles by hand. Other's worked at trestle tables, and chatted quietly amongst themselves as they went about their business.

As soon as the silent monks successfully copied out a page, it would then be handed to Oisin for his artistic flare to be added. He would paint in the borders, marking them out with delicate, interlacing patterns, as well as any other embellishments that the Prior wanted and saw fit to include. The finished product was always dazzling.

He had been working at the monastery for some months, and the Brothers had all become familiar with him. Not something that happened in more insular cells Oisin had worked in; where outsiders were distrusted or regarded with the deepest of suspicion. He still had a London accent, and the northern monasteries in particular despised that about him. But this Midlands monastery was different.

"Morning master Corry," one of the brothers greeted him as he arrived for the day's work.

Oisin greeted the man, Brother Sansom, in return, and returned to his work. But Sansom, who was acting as Prior for a time, came to a halt beside him, and gave a sad shake of his head. Ever since the regular Prior had been taken ill, Brother Sansom had been making sure everyone knew of his recently exalted status by indiscreetly broadcasting tantalising snippets of news that only the Prior was privy to, before pretending to catch himself on, and added in a pompous tone: "Ah but of course this for the Prior's ears alone." An annoying habit that was irritating the other monks no end. Oisin, however, was happy to play along. He had plenty of secrets of his own; ones that would turn Sansom's hair white.

"What's got your goat today, Brother Sansom?" asked Oisin, setting his brush down.

"You wouldn't believe what that woman has gone and said, now," Brother Sansom replied. "I got the letter straight from Court, I did. Well, of course, I can't say too much. It's the Prior's business."

A collective groan rippled around the room as Sansom spoke the last few words. Oisin suppressed a snigger, and coaxed him into revealing all.

"You're dying to tell us, so you may as well."

"Very well then," Sansom replied after no consideration whatsoever. "She only went and said that she would rather see our gracious Queen hanged, than acknowledge her as such!"

There were chokes and splutters of shock and disbelief from the acting Prior's avid listeners. Brother Sansom looked immensely gratified by the effect of his news, but Oisin's heart almost stopped. He fixed the monk with a hard stare.

"What did the King say to that? Surely he has sent her from Court for such disrespect?" he asked. He would have had her arrested if he had been there. But of course, he had not been there for Catherine. He had not been there for any one.

"Sent from Court!" Sansom guffawed. "You poor naïve thing. You obviously have no idea of that human bear pit. If King Henry sends her away, it will be to her own Palace, where she can hold a Court of her own, like the Queen she is, in all but name."

"But listen," Sansom continued. Oisin felt his heart drop, there was more. "That's not all the whore said. She said that she would like to see all of Spain at the bottom of the sea!"

"King Henry is being made a fool of!" one of the other monks called out from the back of the room. "But still, give the King credit, what if Queen Catherine did know his late brother – in the carnal sense, I mean."

"Oh, she didn't!" Oisin was quick to answer. Too quick; the monks were looking at him wide eyed in wonderment. "What I mean is, the Queen is the most pious of women. She wouldn't lie to the Country, to God, or the King."

"He's right," Sansom concurred with an enthusiastic nod. "Never a woman more Godly."

"That's not what that old Groom of Arthur's is saying," laughed another man. "Arthur spent the night in the midst of Spain, indeed!"

A wave of schoolboy sniggering swept around the room, making Oisin flush. He remembered that conversation as clear as day; he was lying then as he was lying every day of his life. The monks may have had no idea that they were in fact talking about him, but it didn't help Oisin. For years after he left Ludlow, he would think people had miraculously guessed his identity if anyone so much as mentioned the royal family in his range of hearing. The guilt, the suspicion, was always there. His old life haunted his every waking moment, and times like this made him jittery, nervy, and made him prone to gaffs, and slip ups. He tried to hold his tongue, but the next revelation made him choke.

"But really, Brother, who keeps blood stained bed sheets for nearly thirty years?"

"What?" Oisin yelped, flushed with shock. "Anthony Denny says that he has the blood stained sheets that Queen Catherine and Arthur consummated their marriage on?"

"More than that," the same monk replied. "He's bringing them into the Court to show the Cardinals."

"Who is defending the Queen?" Arthur asked, his tone panicked but he did not care if he aroused suspicion. "How can King Henry permit such disrespect?"

"The Bishop of Rochester, John Fisher," Sansom answered. "And the whole country, too. She is not alone, master Corry."

Oisin had heard enough; he had to get out of the room. He pushed back his chair, and muttered hasty apologies before rushing for the exit. He burst through the doors of the monastery; gasping for air. He had felt the walls close in on him, as though he were back at the Palace all those years ago. As he calmed himself down with deep steady breaths, he began to clear his head.

Many a time he had finished a job, since he had left Ludlow, he had finished a job and set out on the road to London. He remembered the birth of his niece, Princess Mary. He had made it as far as the gates of the City; on that occasion. But, he had lost his nerve when confronted with so many familiar sights, and so many familiar streets where he had grown. So many memories, feelings, emotions had come rushing back as he looked through the gates, that he turned and ran. Since then, however, he'd not even made it as far as that.

But at that moment, as he stood in the grounds of another monastery, completing another job in his disparate life, he knew that the time had come. It was time to put right what he should have put right many years ago.

* * *

><p>The grounds of Hever Castle were blissfully quiet. A small stream gurgled in the background, the occasional bird sang from the boughs of the trees that lined the road up to the entrance, and the garden was showing the first signs of life after another harsh winter. King Henry savoured the clean country air; a world away from the frantic, stinking London Court he'd spent the season cooped up in.<p>

At the sound of the rustle of skirts, Henry whirled around to find Anne walking towards him down the path. Her peach coloured gown swept the ground at her feet, her hair was neatly tucked beneath a French hood, and she smiled brightly in greeting. Her mother, Lady Elizabeth Howard, was chaperoning her, as always. They both curtseyed before the King, but Henry was impatient for his Lady. He raised her before she could perform her obsequies, and kissed her full on the lips.

"Sweetheart," he whispered in her ear. "Did you receive my last letter?"

"I did," she answered, looking at him longingly. "Has Campeggio finally got here?"

"He arrived on the Monday, as I thought he would," explained Henry. "His gout is slowing him down, but he will be arriving in London soon. Then the trial will begin."

They linked arms, and began walking together through the flowerbeds that were maintained in immaculate condition by Anne's father, the earl of Wiltshire. As they approached a fish pond, they came to a halt by the water and turned to face one another. Henry took her hands in his own. He thought over his next words carefully.

"I think for the trial," he began, falteringly. "It would be best if you remained here with your family, and that you stay away from Court."

Anne rolled her eyes, but that was the only sign of her displeasure. "I am not excluding you," Henry stressed, kissing her cheek.

"I know that," she replied. "I would have stayed away, anyway. But you know how hard this is for me? It has been three years, and I know that you could just cast me aside-" she raised one hand to stop him from protesting - "you know I speak the truth. You could cast me off, and return to your wife-"

"She is not my wife!" Henry interjected, refusing to let that slip.

"Then why are you sharing her bed?" Anne snapped. Now Henry rolled his eyes.

"Because that is the advice of my lawyers, I cannot give Catherine cause to counter sue me," he wearily explained. "I use the time to try and talk sense into her-"

"What?"

Anne's temper flared, a flash in her dark eyes that presaged a storm that Henry tripped over himself to quell before she could get going.

"It means nothing; we just talk!"

"But it's not just talk!" Anne hotly retorted. "You know what happens, Henry? You try to talk sense into her stubborn head, and she is bound to get the upper hand. One day, I know, you'll just give in to her reasoning, and I'll be cast off. When all this time I could be have been married, and settled!"

Anne's eyes swam with angry tears as she remonstrated. Three years, delays from every quarter, even a bout of sweating sickness had delayed them further. Now the Cardinals were delayed in getting to London to set up the Legatine Court. It had seemed that everyone was out to thwart them. She never intended to lose her temper; the last thing she wanted was to sound like a spoiled child. But this whole battle was fraying her nerves, and wearing her out. Her youth was slipping by, and now she felt that the rest of her life was following suit.

Henry cupped her chin in his hands. "I promise you, my love. We will get the divorce, so no more tears."

Anne raised a wan smile, and just about found it in her heart to have some hope.

* * *

><p>Queen Catherine stood stock still as her ladies dressed her. Her gown was a sober black, but made from the finest velvet and taffeta in Europe. She was dripping in the jewels worn only by the Queen's of England, and not a hair on her head was out of place. She stood up to her full height, and looking at herself in the full length mirror. Then, she turned to her Lady in Waiting, Elizabeth Howard, Duchess of Norfolk, and nodded.<p>

"Your Grace," she said. "We are ready to go."

Elizabeth smiled. She was the wife of Thomas Howard, and had defied his orders to support the Queen on this day. She knew where her loyalties lay, and it was certainly not with the daughter of Merchant from Kent. But, she reasoned, when compared to her Stafford family, the Howards were new men. They were yet to learn the true meaning of Royalty.

"Your Majesty," Elizabeth replied as they advanced towards the door. "Your public await you."

The roar of the crowds was deafening. They lined the route that their carriage took, standing five deep, and they bellowed in one voice: "long live Queen Catherine, the one true Queen" as she passed. The sound of so many voices calling out in unison brought tears to her eyes. She looked at them and waved, smiling brightly at them all. Once she had stepped out of her carriage, outside of the court, she decided to spend some time with her people before going in.

She blessed babies, shook hands, and greeted many of them. She delighted in holding up the Court proceedings. On several occasions the Usher tried to get her attention, to tell her that she had been called into Court. Several times; she ignored him. Only when she felt good and ready did she hold her head up high, and enter the Court of Blackfriar's.

Hundreds of faces turned to watch as she processed serenely up the aisle, towards the dais on which King Henry sat. The public galleries were crammed with people, also. A round of applause broke out as soon she showed her face in the door. The whole country was with her, and no one could deny that. Not even Henry; his expression was mutinous.

Catherine mounted the dais, and briefly turned to look up at her crowds of supporters. She raised a weak smile, and turned to Henry. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground; refusing to even look up at her. He had brought her here to humiliate her, and she was well aware of that fact. But no one said she had to make it easy for him.

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><p>The horses hooves thundered against the dry earth, kicking up a great dust cloud that trailed in it's wake. The rider's cloak billowed out behind him as he and the horse sped through the gates of London. It had been two weeks since Arthur had finished his job, and left his aliases, behind him. He had planned his arrival in the city to coincide with the day that Anthony Denny was giving his evidence. He would stop Denny before he had a chance to utterly shame Catherine with sordid bedroom lies, and fake blood stained sheets. He would finally put right the years of betrayal and lies.<p>

Once again, like before, all his memories came flooding back in a rush. He slowed the horse down to a trot as he reached the City itself, and had to dismount as he approached the Courthouse. The crowds were vast, and he ended up leaving horse tethered outside a nearby Inn. As he elbowed and barged his way through the throng, he picked up disjointed snippets of gossip. Lady Anne had not been seen in weeks, one person was saying. Another replied that it was because she didn't want the common people to see her sixth finger, or her hideous birth marks. Arthur inwardly groaned.

But, in amongst the salacious gossip mongering, he picked up other, far more likely pieces of news. Wolsey was looking more pale and shaken with each day that passed. The King was mutinous. The Queen was regal and beautiful. Then, to his horror, that Anthony Denny was a traitor for speaking ill of Her Majesty and the late Prince Arthur.

Arthur made it to the doors of the grand Court, and let himself sag against the cool stone pillars that supported the doorway. He was too late. As he stood there, he considered turning around again. But pushed those thoughts down, again. He had come this far, and wasn't about to give up now. This needed to end, and it needed to end there and then.

He took a moment to catch his breath. He dusted down his cloak, and entered the court room. For the first time in almost thirty years, he saw his wife, and his younger brother. His mouth ran dry, and he froze on the spot; unable to move, unable to think straight. His heart beat began to race as he watched the scene unfold before him like a nightmare in slow motion.

The Queen rose to her feet, and crossed the small space that divided her from Henry. She was stouter than she was at seventeen, her face bore the marks of her difficult life. Her grief and misery told its own story in the lines on her face, now. But, he could see the girl she once was in the mane of auburn hair that fell to her hips. Arthur's heart beat faster and faster as he watched her. She then got to her knees at Henry's feet. He tried to stop her, but it was too late. Arthur stepped inside the courtroom, transfixed by what was happening, and strained his ears to hear what Catherine was saying.

"Sir," she began as she looked imploringly up at the King, who turned his face away in shame. "I beseech you for all the love that has been between us, and for the love of God, let me have justice. Take of me some pity and compassion, for I am a poor woman, and a stranger born out of your dominion. I have here no assured friends, and much less impartial counsel."

The crowds murmured, but Catherine was not to be deterred by anyone. For one heart stopping second, she looked straight at him and he thought she had recognised him. But, she looked straight through him, and then back to Henry in a second.

"Alas! Sir, where have I offended you, or what occasion of displeasure have I deserved," she continued. "I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure and contented with all things wherein you had any delight or dalliance, whether it were little or much. I never grudged in word or countenance, or showed a visage or spark of discontent. I loved all those you loved, only for your sake, whether I had cause or not, and whether they were my friends or enemies. This twenty years or more I have been your true wife..."

The speech continued, but Arthur could hear no more. In a rush of energy; his mind wiped blank of the consequences of what he was doing, he burst through the final set of doors and into the main courtroom. The slam of the door behind him ricocheted about the room, and all eyes, including both Henry and Catherine's were on him.

"Stop!" he called out in voice so much more confident than he felt. "Enough! This is over."

His voice faded to a pale echo as the crowds continued to stare, goggle eyed, at him. Catherine stopped talking, and turned to face him. Henry, too, was looking right at him. Both of their faces were now clouded by utter incomprehension. Neither recognised him. His own brother looked from him, the intruder, to the guards, and back again. Then, just as Arthur was about to turn and flee, a man rose from his place on the benches.

Slowly, unsteadily, Anthony Denny unfolded himself, and squinted, evidently in shock, at him. His mouth dropped open; he seemed to struggle to find his tongue. He pointed to him.

"Prince Arthur!"


	5. Canned Worms

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot! Usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this.

Anyway, I felt guilty for leaving the story at such a pivotal moment, and instead of making my readers wait, I dedicated today to getting a new update written. I hope everyone enjoys!

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: Canned Worms. <strong>

The silence in the Courtroom was oppressive. It smothered the room, blocking out the whole world, and focussed the attention of everyone present squarely on the man standing in the aisle. Arthur wanted the earth to crack open and swallow him whole, a feeling that intensified rapidly as the next few moments spun themselves out for a painfully long time.

On the periphery of his vision he could still see Denny, pointing almost accusingly at him, standing amongst the sea of incredulous faces. Denny had already said his name, but once was not enough. He edged past the people sitting beside him on the bench so that he too was now standing in the aisle.

"You came back?" he asked, as though he suspected that the man in front of him was naught but a mirage; a wraith that would vanish if he tried to touch it. "Its really you?"

"I came back; I had to," replied Arthur.

As if a spell had been suddenly lifted from the masses, a drone of mutinous voices could be heard. A drone that soon rose to an angry buzz, like so many angry bees in a kicked hive. The King, the Cardinals, and the Queen were all still sitting, as though thunder struck, up on the dais. But as the furious voices reached a fever pitch, Henry shot to his feet and bellowed in a rage.

"Out! Get out!"

The voices shut off as though the spell had been recast. Wolsey got to his feet and rushed over to the guards, whispered orders for the intruder to be arrested and shipped off to Newgate Prison. But Denny held out a hand to stop them from advancing on Arthur.

"Please," he said. "He speaks true. Arthur never died. It was our secret, and Her Majesty knew nothing of this plot."

Wolsey and Henry exchanged a glance. As though receiving instructions by telepathy, Wolsey turned to the guards to clear the benches and galleries. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of hundreds of pairs of feet shuffling through the doors. But at the centre of the swarm, Henry, Denny, Catherine, Wolsey, and Arthur all remained standing on the spot. It was like being at the eye of a hurricane. Perfectly still while the world exploded around them.

Wolsey, ever calm, remained after the crowds had gone. He looked at each of them in turn. His expression completely neutral, now. He stood beside the King, whispering soothingly in his ear from time to time. The King himself didn't know what to do with his expression. He veered from rage, to confusion and swung around to incredulous disbelief. He only just managed to keep his swelling anger under control.

"You," he finally pointed to Arthur. "Who are you?"

For shame, Arthur could not look his brother in the eye, and instead diverted his gaze over Henry's left shoulder. He could just see Queen Catherine weeping into her hands, still up on the dais. His heart broke for her.

"I am Arthur, Prince of Wales," he finally answered in a flat, monotone, voice.

"No," Henry shook his head in disbelief. "You lie. I know you lie. Arthur is dead!"

Anthony reached inside the chemise, and pulled out a ring on a chain of gold that was fastened around his neck. He fumbled with the clasp, before finally taking it off. He showed the ring to King Henry. It was gold, encrusted with diamonds and small rubies. Henry turned the ring in the palm of his hands, his eyes clouded over as the recognition hit home.

"This was a gift for Arthur from our mother; for the wedding," Henry said. "He was buried with it."

"No, Arthur gave this to me as payment for my services to him when I aided his escape," Denny explained. The memories of those days were seared into his mind's eye. "I told everyone he was ill with the sweat and likely to die. Then I got a corpse from the nearby town-"

"Enough!" bellowed Henry in anger. He blenched with disgust at the story, and looked as though he were about to vomit.

Wolsey now stepped in, still placidly calm. "Well, if this wild story is true, perhaps his majesty can think of some questions, perhaps memories, that Arthur here can tell us about?"

There was a silence punctuated only by the sobs of Queen Catherine. Henry turned the idea over in his mind, and turned to Wolsey.

"Take the Queen somewhere private, please," he instructed. "This is one humiliating ordeal I will not have her subjected to. Master Denny will assist you."

It was a command for privacy. One that Wolsey, who was more than accustomed to Henry's rages, was unsure about. He expected to come back out and find the imposter dead at the King's feet within five minutes. Nevertheless, it was not his, nor anyone else's, place to question or gainsay the King. With a deferential bow, he did as he was bid.

While Wolsey and Denny ushered Catherine into a nearby confessional box, Henry fixed the other man with a shrewd, calculating look. He weighed him up by the ounce. He reached far back into his childhood, to memory that defied the years and blazed in his mind. A memory of an incident shared only with Arthur, his real brother. He smiled a pained smile.

"You have one chance to get this right, and if you do not, I will hang you with my bare hands," he explained in a voice that was dangerously low; oozing with menace. "What happened to our father's war bonds?"

"I was eleven at the time, and you were only six," recalled Arthur, flinching at the memory. "We had sneaked into father's study, just to take a look around. But, I was being naughty, and grabbed a parchment fixed with the Duke of Brittany's seal, and opened it. There were war bonds, worth a King's ransom, in there. You panicked, and tried to get the papers off me to return them, but as I pushed you away, I accidentally dropped them on the hearth fire. You scraped your knee, and it bled into your hose. You were crying."

Henry listened, reliving the memory in his mind's eye as thought it were happening all over again. His eyes brimmed with tears, as the man spoke every detail as though reading his mind. He took a deep, steadying breath, and as though still refusing to believe what he was hearing, pressed for further details.

"And what did you do next?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

"I knew that father would punish me severely, so I swore you to secrecy," he replied, now looking Henry in the eye, studying him for the faintest trace of recognition. "I told you if you breathed a word to anyone, I would have your head on a spike the moment I became King."

Henry eased himself into a nearby pew and dried his welling tears. Bracing his elbow on the seat opposite, he dropped his head into his hands, and kneaded at his temples. His mind was reeling, and his whole body in shock. He couldn't take it in, he couldn't process that the man before him really was his brother. The same brother he believed to be dead since he was a boy of ten. None of it made sense.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did you do it?"

"I couldn't," answered Arthur. It was feeble, and Henry returned with a look of disgust that Arthur knew he deserved. Even more feebly, he added: "I just could not do it. But I knew you could. I knew you -"

"Don't you dare think for one moment you can weasel your way out of this with flattery!" snapped Henry, jumping back to his feet.

"I swear that's not what I was trying to do!" protested Arthur. "I swear, Your Grace, I was breaking under the pressure, and you were always the more robust. I knew you could do it!"

"No more," Henry tartly said. "I cannot hear any more of this for today. You know, too, that I cannot just let you walk out of here; swanning off to your new life in the sun, don't you?"

Arthur had been expecting this, but it still filled him with dismay. He sat himself down in the pew behind his brother.

"Yes," he gave a jerky nod of the head. "You're going to put me under arrest."

"No!" Henry waved a hand dismissively. "I'm lodging you at the Tower, but you're not under arrest. I just … I just cannot deal with any more of this today."

Henry signalled to the guards to escort Arthur to the Royal Barge. But, as soon as he did so, Catherine burst out of the confessional that she had been sitting in to recover herself in private. She clearly had, while listening in on all that was said. Her face was contorted with rage as she strode up the aisle to where Arthur was now flanked by two armed guards. Her teeth were bared like a snarling lioness, and she raised her hand. No one made an effort to stop what she did next. She slapped Arthur as hard as she possibly could, grunting through the effort and force of the blow. The crack resounding round the chamber made King Henry flinch.

"You made a whore of me!" she screamed as he recoiled from the blow. "You bastard! You Whoreson!"

Henry now got to his feet and wrapped his arms around her; coaxed her into the seat beside him. He had thought, for a moment at least, that she could have been involved. Evidently, he realised he was wrong. Never had he seen such rage in her, and she did not calm enough to sit with him willingly. She struggled violently as though she wanted to scratch Arthur's eyes out.

"Shush, Catherine," he cooed in her ear. He was barely able to believe that he was the one calming her down. "We'll get this sorted out," he promised her.

* * *

><p>Cardinal Wolsey was outside, talking to Thomas Cromwell, when Arthur was led away by the guards. He'd gone to inform the duke of Norfolk and the earl of Wiltshire of what was happening. Norfolk responded by storming off, muttering and swearing in under his breath. Wiltshire, Thomas Boleyn, responded with silent rage. His pale face turned crimson with anger, that slowly dissipated as he realised the potential benefits for his daughter,<p>

"I suppose this means the King's marriage is annulled already, then?" he asked, smiling rather smugly.

Wolsey was grateful that it was Cromwell who disabused Boleyn of such easy notions, and not him.

"I'm afraid it is not quite so simple," Cromwell had answered. "Legally, if a missing person is gone and presumed dead for more than two years, then any spouse is at liberty to remarry."

The smile sunk like a lead weight from Boleyn's face.

"But we know now that he is not dead!" he snapped back at Cromwell.

"But, when Catherine married the King, he had been missing, presumed dead, for six years, meaning she was free to marry," Cromwell explained, a pained smile on his face. "But, there is no precedent for a person who is presumed dead suddenly reappearing like this. I cannot think of anything."

"What about the Crown, Cromwell?" Boleyn hissed. Now he was getting to the point, Wolsey thought as he watched the discussion. "Is Henry still King?"

"Well, that is simpler," Cromwell answered, smiling a little easier now. "Our Monarch is purely constitutional. All Kings are recognised by Parliament. They are made, recognised, and maintained by Parliament. Because Arthur was never King, having vanished several years before the death of his father, he has not been made King by Parliament, either. He has never been anointed as King, or sworn in as King by any other sacred rite."

"So Henry is still King? Yes, or no?"

All those long words must have been too much for the earl, and Wolsey allowed himself a throaty chuckle.

"Do not fear, My Lord," he interjected before Cromwell could confuse the man any more. "Your daughter will still be Queen, one day." He answered the man's real question.

"Basically, My Lord of Wiltshire, because Arthur was never made King in the first place, he has no throne to abdicate," Cromwell spelled it out a little further. "But, I would be cautious, and recommend to his majesty that he compels Arthur to formally renounce all claim to the throne, and we can get that renunciation ratified by Parliament."

Boleyn looked a little relieved. But the issue of the marriage was still clearly preying on his mind. The flush had returned to his waxen face, and his mind was running furiously. He cold grey eyes flitted from Wolsey to Cromwell, and back again.

"Because there is no precedent for a husband believed to be dead suddenly returning, can we make one ourselves?" he asked.

"And have Catherine's marriage to Henry annulled on those grounds?" Cromwell asked, taking up the thread of Boleyn's thoughts. "I will double check the law books, but I think we can do it. Just say that because Arthur is now known to be living, that automatically invalidates any other marriage that happened afterwards. Let us just hope that Catherine does not contest it."

The anger drained from Boleyn's face, to be replaced by a look of sheepish regret. He sighed deeply, and sent up a silent prayer.

"You realise now," he said giving a sad shake of his head. "That I must return to Hever and break the news to Anne. She thought she would be Queen by the end of next week."

"Good luck, my lord," Cromwell beamed, unable to contain his amusement at Boleyn's predicament. "I think you'll be needing it!"

Both Cromwell and Wolsey watched as Boleyn trudged off towards his waiting barge. Once he was out of sight, the two men walked along the gardens that surrounded the Court House. The people had finally dispersed, and gone home. But the talk was rife like wild fire. A man back from the dead. A Lazarus, no less. They came to halt and sat at a bench near a small water fountain that trickled soothingly in the background.

"There is trouble ahead, Master Cromwell," said Wolsey in his foreboding tone. "Maybe not now, maybe not next week. But mark my words, there is still trouble ahead for Arthur."

All the formal renunciations in the world cannot wipe away the fact that there was a new rival claimant on the scene. One that should have been King by birthright. The cans of worms were stacked from floor to ceiling, all waiting for the right moment to burst open. It was just a matter of time.


	6. The Betrayal, and the Damage Done

**Author's Note:** As always, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Your input is a great encouragement, and always gratefully received, so thank you. Thanks again to Birdman45 for the magnificent plot bunny. However, I have had to digress slightly. Arthur cannot abdicate, because he was never proclaimed King in the first place. But I hope the formal renunciation (explained in the last chapter) will suffice.

Usual disclaimers apply; I own nothing. Please read and review. Thanks again!

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Six: The Betrayal, And The Damage Done.<span> **

Anne casually studied the cards in her hand; a royal flush. Opposite her, Henry looked glum. Whether that was because his was, yet again, the losing hand, or whether it was he was dwelling on his troubles, Anne could not tell. The news of the return of Prince Arthur had spread like a tidal wave across Court, and the whole country. It was all anyone was talking about, and everywhere they went, whispers were following them.

Wolsey, sensing the King's distress, had opened the doors of York Place to Henry and Anne, providing them with a sanctuary well away from the gossips, and affording them both the clear head space that they both desperately needed. York Place was a grand affair. Wipe open galleries, cloisters, exquisite furnishings, and the finest of tapestries. Like all powerful prelates, the Cardinal knew how to live. Anne made a note of it all, and turned back to the cards in her hand.

"Forget this," she said as she dropped them on the table. "Why don't we get some fresh air? I think it will do you good."

Henry sighed deeply; looking less than enthusiastic. Anne groaned inwardly. She couldn't bear to see him so morose, so she took matters into her own hands. She ordered the servant to fetch their cloaks, and get the horses saddled. She decided that they were to go hunting in the Cardinal's well stocked park lands. A vast acreage that stretched all around the palace.

"A few hours won't hurt," said Henry, at last looking a little more enthused as he hauled himself out of his seat.

"It's your brother, isn't it?" she asked as she linked her arm through his. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

She tried to think of her own dead brothers, and what she would do if they suddenly returned, declaring that their deaths had all been an elaborate hoax. But of course, it was different for Henry. Arthur should have been King. But, as she looked up into Henry's face, she could see that his pain ran deeper than mere affairs of state.

As they emerged onto the veranda, and looked out over the sun drenched gardens. Henry stopped her. He gathered his conflicting thoughts, and finally spoke what was on his mind, with a tremulous voice.

"I want kill him," he said. "I want to hit him, kill him, and punish him for what he has done. At the same time, I want to embrace him, and keep him safe from the world for the rest of his natural life."

"How does that even make sense?" Henry continued. "All these – these … " his words broke off as he tried to articulate exactly what was going on in his troubled heart. But Anne smiled, and gave a soft laugh. She stood on her tip toes, and kissed his cheek.

"Its all perfectly understandable, Henry," she explained. "You're angry at Arthur because he lied to you. But, you know you still love him as a brother, and this rage at his betrayal will pass. You're so relieved to see that he is alive and well, but you're equally furious over the years of grief you have endured. Then, there is the small matter of your bigamous marriage to Catherine. He let you marry her, knowing that she was still married to him. You have every right to conflicting emotions."

"What would I do without you?" the question was a rhetorical one.

Henry wrapped her in a close embrace, and pressed her close. As he entwined his fingers through her lustrous hair, he trailed kisses all down her throat, making her groan in delight. He reached up with one hand, and started to work his way down the front of Anne's bodice, to the plump breasts beneath the stiff linen. But, he knew the slap on the hand was coming before it even landed.

"Ouch!" he yelped, rubbing the sore and reddening spot on the back of his hand.

"When we are married!" she reminded him firmly, but with her face illuminated by a bright smile. She wagged a reproving finger at him, which he playfully snapped at his teeth before burying his face in the bosom he so longed to kiss again.

"All right, all right!"

Anne's expression turned serious again as she resumed their walk to the stables where there horses were ready for the hunt. She looked up at him:

"I know that Wolsey and Cromwell will soon have this mess dealt with," she said. "But that does not change what I have been telling you for these last two years. The people on the streets, in the towns, and villages. The people who have no voice, are silently crying for a Reformation. The Church is corrupt, Henry. They tried to stop you, the King of England, from leaving your wife. They meddle too much in things that do not concern them."

"I know, Anne," Henry replied with a sigh of resignation. "I promise you, I will look into it."

"Read the books that I have given to you, and you will realise the King you can become," she advised, her eyes glittered with the passion of her cause. "Ask Cromwell. He will tell you."

"Is Cromwell a heretic, too? He works for the Cardinal!"

Henry knew full well what he was doing. But Anne was passionate, so fiery on the issue that he could not resist stoking the flames. He'd never met such a woman as Anne, and he was drawn to her by a magnetic pull.

"Is that what you think we are, Henry?" Anne retorted. "We are all good Catholics, that is what you fail to see. We believe passionately in the Catholic faith, but not the idolatry, or the worship of graven images, or the corruption and avarice of the Bishop of Rome!"

"I know, I know," he said, silencing her with a kiss on the lips. "I promise, we will take this further. That is my word. Now come, let's hunt!"

* * *

><p>Arthur was free to leave his lodgings within the Tower. The door was kept unlocked, and he could even go out in the gardens, or visit the market within the Tower precincts. But he could not, however, leave the Tower itself. He was not a prisoner, but neither was he a free man. The change was huge for a man who had spent the last thirty years travelling the length and breadth of the country, and even sailed to France and the Netherlands, for his work. He had been free to roam wherever his highly sought trade brought him. The Tower still felt like prison.<p>

For the first day, Arthur lay on the bed in the room. He dozed fitfully, having been left exhausted by the events of the last few days, and his arduous journey across the country. But by dusk, he was wide awake. He pulled on a clean pair of breeches, and a new shirt, before sitting at the window and watched the sunset over the London skyline. The heavens burning pink and orange, before darkening to deepening shades of purple as the night closed in, and the city life drew to a close, a hiatus before doing it all again in the morning.

As he was about to turn from the window, a knock came upon the door. Arthur stood, ready to receive his guests, just as a Groom in Tudor livery appeared around the door. As with all his infrequent visitors that day, the Groom took a long, curious, look at him. After him, another servant enters, and began lighting proper wax candles, and swapping them with the usual Tower standard issue tapers and tallow fat affairs.

"His Majesty, the King, has come to see you," the Groom declared and then broke off as he struggled to find the correct form of address for Arthur. "Uh.. Your Grace … My Lord?"

Even Arthur didn't know how to address a former Prince of Wales.

"Just Arthur," he interjected, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

"Very well, Just Arthur," the Groom replied with a polite smile. "His Majesty will be in to see you shortly."

The boy vanished around the door, only to be replaced by Henry a few minutes later. Arthur swept a low bow, greeted his brother formally; waiting for the command to rise. It didn't come. Arthur could hear Henry pacing around the spacious room, inspecting the furnishings and seeing that everything was to his standard. No matter what, Arthur was still royal born.

Finally, after the silence seemed to spiral into tension, Henry finally spoke:

"So," he declared firmly. "Have you had time to rest?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," replied Arthur, still bowing.

"Rise," Henry finally commanded. He watched as Arthur stood straight again, and regarded him coolly. "I keep thinking I know what I am going to say to you. I have it all worked out in my mind. But, when I come before you, all my forward planning goes out of the window, and I am left speechless again. I keep thinking that my anger has abated, but then it comes back and I don't know what to do with you."

Arthur flushed red with guilt; dropping his gaze to the rushes below his feet. He struggled to find some words that would console his brother, anything to relieve the shame that was in him now.

"I missed you sorely," said Arthur, his voice weak with emotion. "And Mary, our dear sister. Margaret, too. I yearned for you all, and I long to see them again."

Henry was stood looking out of the window, but he jerked his gaze over to Arthur. In the flickering candlelight, Arthur could see the rage flash dangerously in Henry's eyes, and it brought a chill fear to his heart. He took an instinctive backwards step as Henry lunged across the room and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

"It's all about you, isn't it?" he hissed, pulling Arthur up close to his face that was contorted in pain and anger. "Poor you, and the terrible burden that was on your shoulders. Poor you, you missed us all so much while you were swanning about this country doing whatever the hell it was you were doing. All footloose and fancy free. Well, there are other family members just dying to see you again, Arthur."

"Henry please," pleaded Arthur.

But Henry was beyond reason. He hauled Arthur across the room, pushing him towards the open door of the lodgings. Arthur stumbled forwards, and had to reach for the wall to stop himself from falling. Henry's heavy footsteps closed in on him, and Arthur got another sharp shove in the back that forced him through the door, and into the Tower. Henry bellowed at the guards not to follow them as he pushed Arthur all the way through the Tower, then outside to where the royal barge gently bobbed on the moonlit Thames.

"It's high time we had a little family reunion, don't you think?" sneered Henry as he pushed Arthur into the barge, making it pitch and rock violently from side to side.

"Henry, please, stop," Arthur pleaded again, genuinely afraid now. "Where are you taking me?"

The question went ignored, but was soon indirectly answered by Henry's orders barked to the oarsman. "Westminster Abbey, now sir."

All through the journey upriver, Arthur could see Henry's moonlit profile shaking with rage. He was like a pan of boiling water, just simmering in a heat. He said nothing, but the silence was mutinous, and the heat of anger radiated from his body. Arthur watched, confused and frightened, as Westminster loomed into view. They disembarked at the back of the Abbey. Arthur was unceremoniously hauled ashore by Henry. The pushing and shoving began again, and Arthur found himself letting Henry do it, hoping that his brother would vent his anger that way.

The Abbey was in darkness. It was vast, silent, and completely empty but for the two of them. The moonlight fell in long, slanting shafts through the vast bays of tall windows; stained a rainbow of hue and colour by the stained glass. Under any other circumstances, it would have been beautiful and awe inspiring. Under these circumstances, the oppressive, tomb like silence merely added to the threats and undercurrents of violence.

Finally, Henry grasped Arthur's upper arm, and proceeded to march him up the aisle, to the nave, and across the transept to the east wing. They reached a wrought iron gate that had not been there when Arthur last visited. It was new. Henry shoved Arthur hard in the small of his back, through the open gate, sending him crashing down a small flight of steps. His knees cracked against the cold hard flagstones, and he yelped in pain.

"Get up!" Henry bellowed. A bellow answered by many echoes.

He reached down, and picked Arthur up bodily from the ground, before dumping him down again at the foot of a grand tomb inside the new chapel. Arthur lay in a heap on the floor, before slowly, painfully, getting back to his feet. He looked at the tomb. At the bronze faces of the man and woman who were sculpted on top of the crypt, and his heart almost stopped beating.

Arthur reached out one trembling hand, and caressed the woman's bronze, expressionless face. He didn't even notice the tears that suddenly sprang to his eyes, and streamed down his cheeks. The breath had been knocked from his chest the moment he recognised her. Behind him, although he was barely aware of it, Henry sobbed quietly into his sleeve.

"Mother," whispered Arthur, gulping back the tears that were choking him.

"You know what she did when she thought that you had died?" asked Henry. He was leaning against a support pillar, doubled over with his own grief. "She had another child, a desperate hope that a new child would fill the void that you left behind."

Arthur's legs felt weak, far too weak to support his body, as fresh wave of guilt washed over him. He said nothing, for there were no words in any language that could make right what he had done to Elizabeth of York, his own mother.

"You killed her," sneered Henry, the venom re-injected into his voice. "You broke her, and you killed our mother."

Arthur could no longer look at the effigy. He pushed himself up against the wall of the crypt, and tried to block out the thoughts of her cold body lying embalmed and dead on the opposite side of the wall that divided them. Henry pushed himself away from the pillar he leant on, and towered over Arthur, who was still curled up on the floor.

"Did you think of her?" he asked. Suddenly, icily calm. "We watched her die. And her baby. They both died."

Arthur couldn't speak at all. No words would come, and even if they did, they would only make his shame and guilt worse. At that moment, he would have given anything to go back, and change what he had done. His mother could enjoy a healthy retirement, and carried on living her beautiful life. There was no going back.

Henry began stalking around the wide chapel, and swept his arms around at the other few tombs in there.

"Here is Grandmother Beaufort," he called over to Arthur. "Did you think of her? Did you think of her pain at learning of the death of her treasured Grandson?"

Henry strode over to where Arthur still lay curled at the side of their parents' crypt. He leaned down and dragged him up by the front of his shirt, and forced him to look into the sculpted faces of Elizabeth and Henry VII. With a rough hand, he forced Arthur's head down, like a puppy having its nose rubbed into it's own shit.

"That's not all," hissed Henry in Arthur's ear. "You broke him, too. Mary and I were left to watch him die a slow death of grief for you, and for his wife who's fate you sealed by running away and leaving us. Did you have any idea of all that? Did you have any idea of the betrayal, and the damage done?"

"All of the time we grew up together," Henry continued. "You had me to fall back on. But who did I have? Who could I turn to when it all got too much? I was alone, but I coped because I am not a spineless coward!"

Arthur was still choked with grief. He was afraid. Afraid to speak; afraid to stay silent. He wept openly, letting his tears fall on the blank eyed effigies of his long dead parents. Parents, he knows, his disappearance had a hand in killing. But he loved them still. He loved and missed them all. He would never forget his mother's face, or her quiet dignity, and her abundance of love and light. His father, and grandmother; two stoic solid presences in his life. All gone now.

Henry let Arthur go again. Arthur had let himself be thrown around like a rag doll, and now that Henry released the pressure that kept him bent across the crypt, he slid to the floor with a dull thud. Still silent; still utterly incapable of articulating his guilt, sorrow and regret. After a few tension filled minutes, Arthur wiped his eyes on the back of his torn sleeve. He pushed the tear damp hair from out of his swollen, bloodshot eyes, and lifted his head to look up at Henry.

"For all that I have done," he choked through a voice cracked and raw. "If you want my head, take it. But what will it achieve? I will gladly take the death that you see fit for me. But, nothing will change what happened, and whatever you think, I do still love you all. I loved you all so much that I had to go. I don't expect you to understand."

As Arthur had predicted, his explanations merely enraged Henry further. Arthur got his feet, shakily and unsteadily held himself straight and braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. As Henry's fist connected with his jaw, pain exploded across his face, and he could taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. Henry was about to strike again when a woman's terrified voice rang out across the chapel.

"Henry! No! Please!"

Henry dropped his fist and whirled around to see who it was, as the echoes of hurried footsteps resonated around the Chapel. Arthur lifted his head enough to see his brother suddenly collapse into the arms of a girl with raven dark hair that tumbled to her waist. Ever so gently, she lowered him to floor, and allowed Henry to sob inconsolably into her shoulder. As she did so, she looked over Henry's trembling body, and looked at Arthur through wide, dark eyes that glittered in the bright moonlight. Her expression was unreadable, but not menacing at all.

"Hush, darling," she cooed, and turned to kiss him over and over. Like a mother consoling a child. "Its all all right, we'll make it all right."

It was testament to the strength of the rumours that had swept the country about this woman, that Arthur felt a sudden, and intense, curiosity to find himself in the presence of Lady Anne Boleyn. It was almost as though the last few hours hadn't happened. She was not an overly attractive woman, from what he could see. But she had something. A pull. She was not beautiful, but she was exotic. A strange creature, and he could see why Henry was so smitten. Of all the things to be curious about, he wondered how she knew they were there.

"The Groom came back from the Tower," she said, as though she had read his mind. "Said Henry brought you here, he thought the King was like to kill you."

She was talking to him; he found himself quite lost for words.

"Oh," he replied through a jaw thick with swelling. "Just in time."

"Evidently," she said. She carried on caressing Henry's face, and looked down at him. "You ought not fight in a Holy place, Henry. Not like this, not in front of your blessed parents, who're in paradise now."

"I'm so sorry my love," Henry replied in a voice muffled by Anne's ample bosom. "You should never have seen that."

Anne raised a smile. "I came to tell you something," she said. "Master Cromwell came to see me; to tell me that we're now free to marry. The legislation went through Parliament, your first marriage annulled because of Arthur's return; our marriage will be fully legal, and there is nothing the Pope, or the Emperor, or even Catherine, can do about it."

Henry calmed immediately, and sagged with relief. They both wrapped their arms around each other, and Arthur became an invisible presence in the room. They kissed deeply, and passionately. Henry, and his future Queen lost themselves in each other's embrace.


	7. From This Day Forwards

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and review this story; your comments are always gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thank you again to everyone who has read, favourite, and alerted this story.

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven: From This Day Forwards.<strong>

The news of the impending wedding soon diverted attention away from Arthur. Lady Anne worked around the clock, or so it seemed to Henry, ordering fabrics for a new gown, arranging fresh flowers to be harvested, setting up her new household, and making sure every small detail was just so. Then, there was the small matter of her coronation. That was an event that would be the stark opposite of the private wedding. The coronation would involve the whole city, and both Henry and Anne wanted it to be held during the coming summer, praying that the fragile English weather would hold.

But behind the festivities; Arthur still loomed. The attention had left him, but the problems he posed remained. Unresolved, and persistently stubborn in creeping up on Henry when he least needed it. The month of June was drawing to a close when Henry summoned his sisters to his presence, along with Catherine, the dowager Princess of Wales.

Henry's eldest sister, the dowager queen of Scotland, already knew the truth. She had testified at Blackfriar's the day before Arthur's entrance, and was still in London. Mary, the duchess of Suffolk, however, had been hearing it all second hand through her husband. But, it was Catherine who was going to the one to face the greatest challenge.

All three women appeared at once, with their vast retinues in tow. The ladies took up places in the outer galleries while Margaret, Mary, and Catherine were ushered inside the King's Privy Apartments. Once the wine and food had been served, even the Grooms and servants were dismissed, leaving the four of them alone to discuss the issue in utmost privacy.

"Lady Anne not joining us, brother?" asked Margaret. She raised her glass to her lips, and shot Catherine a pointed look from over the rim. Ever since the ignominious death of Margaret's first husband, the King of Scots, at the hands of Catherine's troops, the two women's resentment of each other had softly simmered beneath their calm exteriors. Henry detected the subtle hint of animosity right away.

"She is busy with the wedding," he replied curtly. "One of her friends, a Thomas Cranmer, she thinks would be ideal for the service is attending a meeting with her, now."

"Please, let us just talk about Arthur," pleaded Mary, looking from Margaret and then across to a silent Catherine. Unlike Margaret, Mary had supported Catherine – much to Henry's chagrin (she of all people, he thought, should understand a love match).

"I acknowledge him as my husband," Catherine stated, pressing the flat of her hands down onto the table for emphasis. "But I will not take him into my …" she broke off as she cast around for a tactful way to phrase it. To be in love with one man, who was about to marry another woman, and be expected to console herself with someone else, was more than she could bear. "I cannot be expected to have relations with him."

"Speaking of which," Margaret cut in. "Does Arthur have any children? There must have been other women; he may have worked in monasteries, but that doesn't make him a monk."

Henry's expression clouded over. "Even if he does, they are bastards. They have no claim to any other our inheritances, less still my crown. That is final."

"He will get no legitimate ones, either," Catherine added. "I agree to keep him as my husband for this reason alone. To secure this country that has long been my home."

"But Arthur still has a claim, even if he renounces it through Parliament," Margaret chipped in as she refilled her own and Mary's glasses of wine. "What is done through Parliament can just as easily be undone. We all know that."

"I know, and I have thought of that," retorted Henry. "I am no fool, and know well how to secure myself."

"I was not suggesting that you don't," Margaret assured him. "But keeping Arthur secure at the Tower is soon going to reflect badly on you. He has committed no crime, and will cause consternation among the people; could even give rise to rumours you have secretly done away with him as a threat. Give him some backwater earldom, and send him packing."

"I cannot do that," replied Henry. "Until Anne delivers a son, I need Arthur kept where I can watch him. He may not want the crown, but that won't stop others from wanting it for him."

"I think you're overreacting," said Mary, placing her hand over Henry's. "No one in this realm wishes to see you overthrown, especially not for an untried Prince who played dead for nigh on thirty years."

"But Henry is not wholly unjustified, either, Sister," Margaret said as she turned to look at Mary, sitting at her side. She was too young to even remember Arthur. "There is no disputing that Arthur should have been King. Next time Henry raises an unpopular tax, or makes a decision that the people don't like, who knows what hot headed fools will rise up in Arthur's name, whether Arthur wants them to or not."

"Keeping Arthur in the Tower is still dangerous," it was Catherine who spoke. "It could arouse the people's sympathy if they perceive him to be ill treated."

"She is right," Margaret concurred. "Perhaps include him in the honours list for the coronation?"

Catherine inwardly shuddered at the mention of the coronation. Her gaze dropped to her hands, still flat against the table, as Henry agreed.

"The Poles and the Exeter lot will all be there," he said. All of the rival claimants would be there, or suffer the penalties. "But what honour? A Dukedom?"

"The Dukedom of Clarence is vacant!" Mary suggested with a grin.

It took a second for the underlying jest to set in. The last duke of Clarence was the brother of their grandfather, Edward IV; executed for plotting to usurp the crown. Although the women laughed; Henry looked satisfied.

"Actually," he declared. "It would send out a clear message to those who may seek to use him in their plots. I like it."

* * *

><p>As soon as the matter of Arthur's future was settled, Mary and Margaret rose from their seats to leave. Together, they were bound for the Tower for their first meeting with Arthur since his return. But, Catherine remained. She and Henry looked at each other from across the table in an awkward silence. Each tried to think of the right things to say, each wrestling with their own conflicted emotions.<p>

"Mary is back from Ludlow," said Catherine, eventually.

Henry's expression brightened considerably. "Excellent," he replied. "I need to see her, Catherine. We should explain what's going on to her together."

"You mean, she will let?"

"Lady Anne has no choice, Catherine," Henry replied firmly. "Mary is still my daughter, and a daughter conceived in good faith at that."

Mary was the biggest victim. She lost everything through no fault of her own, and because one man played a trick on her parents a long time before she was even conceived. Catherine sighed deeply.

"Lady Salisbury tells me that Mary asked if Arthur is her father now," she said. "She also said that if Arthur had not come back, then you and I would still be married."

"This is why we need to explain this to her together," said Henry. "She needs to understand that we were living a lie. If she resents Arthur for it, and she has every right to do so, then that is something Arthur himself must deal with. But, she must also understand that we are still her parents; no matter who comes along."

Catherine raised a pained smile. Her business was concluded. She, too, rose to her feet and drained the dregs of her wine. But, as she turned to leave, Henry called to her from over his shoulder; just as she was at the door.

"For what it is worth," he said. "I loved you, once. It grieves me, too, that it ended like this."

Catherine paused in the doorway, and hovered there for a moment. She looked as if she were about to say something, but then changed her mind. She nodded to him, that pained smile still leaving its trace on her expression, and left. The scent of her rose water still lingered in the air long after she had gone, and her footsteps receded out of his chambers, and out of his life.

* * *

><p>Arthur looked down at his bare feet standing in the rushes of his cell floor. Like a delicate flower under the eye of a baking hot sun, he could feel himself wilting under the dual glare of his two sisters. Mary had been a sweet Princess of a girl when he had seen her last. But now she looked at him as though he were a peasant that had befouled her breathing space. Margaret had that air of haughty silence that she'd perfected as a queen in waiting. One that exuded her superiority over the mere mortals who crossed her path. She looked down her long, thin nose at him, and stepped closer. She was studying him like he was a painting she couldn't decide if she liked, or not.<p>

"Its, er, nice to see you again," said Arthur, faltering at every word as he braced himself for the explosion. It was feeble, but he was desperate to break the tension in the air.

Margaret said nothing in return. Her lower lip twitched, and her face flushed an angry red. But tears sprang into her eyes, and she suddenly leapt on him. She flung her arms around his neck, and pulled him into a vice-like hug.

"Oh! Arthur!" she sobbed into his shoulder.

Within seconds, he could feel her tears seep through his shirt. Tentatively, he patted her back before returning her embrace. Soon, the pair of them were entwined in each other's arms, both trying to stem their tears. Even Mary came over to join them. A three way bear hug as the siblings were so unexpectedly thrown back together again.

"Do not think for one moment that I am not extremely cross with you!" Margaret choked between sobs, but she clung to him all the tighter.

"I know," he replied, blushing deeply. "I can see it clearly!"

She pulled away and delivered a half-hearted slap to his upper arm. "Come on, we need air," she said as she composed herself and dried her tears. "The King permits you exercise doesn't he?"

Once they were outside in the warm, early summer air, they spread out and walked abreast of one another through the small gardens of the Tower. It was the most peaceful part of the fortress, a relic of the days when it was a pleasure palace, rather than a prison.

"He's giving you a Dukedom," Margaret informed him as they fell into step around the flower beds.

Arthur sighed deeply, and stopped in his tracks. "I don't want it!" he retorted. "Why does he think I ran away the first time?"

Margaret turned to face him. "You don't honestly expect Henry to just let you go on your merry little way, now, do you?"

"Why not?" he asked, wide eyed with disbelief. "I was no trouble before -"

"Because everyone thought you were dead!" Margaret replied. "If you know what is good for you, you will take it and be grateful for it."

Arthur relaxed. He always knew he had cast off his anonymity for life, he just hadn't wanted to fully admit it to himself.

"What Dukedom?" he asked flatly.

"Clarence."

Mary flushed and turned away to watch an insect crawl into the bud of a rose. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Well, its good to see he trusts me," he said. "Look, I don't blame him for being angry. But I have renounced my claim to the throne. What more can I do?"

Margaret held him in her gaze for a minute. "Pray Anne delivers a son very quickly," she replied, her tone measured.

* * *

><p>It was the evening before the wedding when the knock came on Arthur's cell door. He was observing his usual routine; finishing his meal before watching the sun set over the city. He was about to pick up his book and retire to bed, until the unexpected visitor arrived. The door opened, its rusty hinges whining in protest, and a familiar Groom stepped inside.<p>

"Your Grace," he addressed Arthur as a duke already. "His Majesty the King is here to see you, again."

"Thank you," replied Arthur as he brushed loose crumbs from his clothes, and bowed deeply as Henry appeared in the Groom's place.

They had not met since their fight in Westminster Abbey. But already Arthur could sense that Henry's anger had been purged. He seemed calm, and the high pitched yapping of a young dog could be heard. Henry offered his hand to kiss, and bid him to rise. A Spaniel puppy was squirming in the King's arms.

Henry looked at him, a wan smile on his face.

"I thought you might like some company in here," said Henry as he nodded at the dog.

"Thank you," replied Arthur as he reached out to take the pup. "You remembered?"

"They were always your favourite," said Henry. "I remembered."

Arthur grinned down at the dog as it wriggled in his arms, and turned to look up at him through deep brown, full moon eyes that glittered in the candlelight. He nuzzled the velvet space the animal's muzzle, before placing him on the floor where he proceeded to investigate his new surroundings with enthusiasm. The men watched it for a few moments, before turning to look back at one another. Arthur recognised the gesture of forgiveness.

"I expect you to be at the wedding tomorrow," Henry informed him. "And at the coronation. You will be acting as a Steward at the ceremony, and you will acknowledge Anne as Queen publicly, and at the private banquets. You will pay your fealty to her alone, and apart from the others."

"Gladly I will do it," Arthur assured him. "I am honoured to do it."

He wanted to say more. He wanted to say that no one would dare question anything, but he knew he would be over-compensating. He wanted to bring up the issue of the Dukedom, but seeing Henry so willing to reconcile, he thought better of it. As though Henry had second guessed his thoughts, he explained the honour in full.

"Once this is done, and the dust settled," he explained. "You may retire to your the country, and the lands that come with your ducal seat. I trust Mary and Margaret informed you of my decision?"

"Margaret did," Arthur answered.

The tension did not disappear, but it drained away, as they lapsed into small talk. Arthur could breathe easily, and Henry could look forward to his wedding free from the troubles that Arthur had resurrected. Both were happy, even hopeful, of old wounds healing nicely.

* * *

><p>Anne and Thomas Boleyn stepped in perfect unison towards the doors of the small chapel in the Palace of Greenwich. Two yeomen, immaculately dressed, reached over and swung the doors open to reveal the interior of the chapel, and at once the face of every guest turned to look at her.<p>

First she glanced up at her father, then behind her. Her mother, sister, niece, and two female cousins were formed up, bearing her long train. Satisfied that all was in order, she faced the altar, and smiled. Finally, her day had come and she was to marry the King. She spotted him after a second, standing beside his brother, Arthur. Charles Brandon was there, and so too was his wife, Mary. Anne was gratified to see so many of her detractors present. But, not even Anne had expected Catherine to take up her invitation, so her absence was hardly a surprise, or a disappointment.

She laced her arm through her fathers, and clutched her bouquet as together, they all glided up the velvet carpeted aisle. The smell of purifying incense was heavy in the air, and the sound of a collective sigh rippled around the few, specially invited guests. When Thomas Boleyn left her at the front of the aisle, he turned to her with a tear in his eye. He said nothing, but the pride in his face needed no voice.

"You look beautiful," whispered Henry as he stood in the place Thomas had just vacated at Anne's side.

He took in the full length of her cream and white damask and taffeta gown. A diamond tiara winked and glittered on her head, offsetting her lustrous dark hair. She looked back at Henry with eyes that shone with a tear of happiness.

"I love you," she replied through a voice heavy with emotion.

Their smiles mirrored each other as the Chaplain, Thomas Cranmer, began the formal ceremony. He was nervous, his hands visibly trembling as he opened his bible on the podium in front of him. But, when he looked up to address the congregation, he addressed them clearly and authoritatively.

"Dearly beloved friends," he spoke to them all with a sweeping gesture of the arm. "We are gathered together in the sight of God, and in the face of his congregation, to join together this man, and this woman, in holy matrimony."

As the preamble continued, Anne and Henry looked into each others eyes, and beamed. Neither could quite believe that it was finally happening. But a moment of nervous anticipation soon arrived in Cranmer's sermon:

"If any man can show any just cause why they may not be joined together, let him now speak, or for ever hold his peace."

The silence was absolute; the moment spun out. Anne glanced nervously at the doors, as though expecting someone to burst through them at any minute. No one did, and she turned back to Henry, ready to exchange their vows. Cranmer moved to stand before Henry and Anne. First, he turned to Henry.

"Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together after God's convenience in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her? And forsaking all others, keep thee only for her, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will," replied Henry.

"Will you have this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you obey him, serve only him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health? And forsaking altogether keep only him, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will," answered Anne, her voice high and clear.

Then, Thomas Boleyn stepped forwards and placed Anne's right hand in Henry's left, as he gave her away with a single tear sliding down his cheek. It was Henry's turn to speak again.

"I take thee, Anne, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forwards, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to honour, till death us do part, in God's holy ordinance; I plight you my troth."

Anne released her grip on Henry's hand, and placed her left in his right, ready to take her final vow.

"I take thee, Henry, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forwards, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love. Honour, and obey, till death us do part, in God's holy ordinance; I plight you my troth."

Henry opened his hand, and Arthur dropped a plain gold ring into his trembling palm. Anne watched through a veil of tears as he slid the ring over her finger.

"With this ring, I do thee wed," Henry's voice was hoarse as he struggled to fight back the tears of happiness. "This gold and silver I give, with my body I do worship, and with my worldly goods I do thee endow. In the name of the father, the son, and of the holy ghost."

Anne gave up the fight against her own emotions and wept openly as she slid the ring over Henry's fingers and repeated the same vow. She wanted to throw herself in his arms, and have him take her there and then. But, Cranmer interrupted her fantasies with prayers. God was called upon to witness the union in his name. Once that was done, Anne heard the words she had yearned and hungered for for nigh on four years.

"In the sight of God, and before all these people, I pronounce you man and wife."

Their union was sealed with a deep, lingering kiss. From this day forwards, Anne knew, everything would be different.


	8. A Pole Apart

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your comments are gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: A Pole Apart.<strong>

The water pageant began at noon. Barges had been decorated to look like dragons and sea monsters, that spat fireworks from their gaping mouths. Other barges were hung with crimson hangings that disguised the musicians who played as the new Queen was rowed towards the Tower. The Mayor, Alderman, Liverymen, and all the City Guilds, formed the flotilla that escorted Anne to the Tower for the first of four days of coronation celebrations.

Arthur watched nervously from the battlements of the Tower as the water borne spectacle unfolded, squinting against the sun's reflection on the rippling water. Even after all these years, he could still identify the standards hoisted up on the barges that floated down river. The only one he had not seen before was the biggest of them all. It showed a falcon wearing a crown, perched on a barren tree stump; a tree stump that had burst to life at the fertile touch of the falcon's claw.

Over and over, he ran through exactly what he had to do when greeting Anne at the gates of the Tower, and escorting her inside. It was this kind of pomp and ceremony that had him running for the hills all those years ago, and now here he was again, right in the thick of the biggest coronation on English soil for well over a century. He had over-heard one of the City officials moaning that the cost was in excess of two hundred thousand ducats. It was while he was mired in his own thoughts that the sound of a woman's voice startled him.

"Hello there," she said. Then seeing the startled look in Arthur's eyes as he whirled around, she added: "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm Ursula Pole; the Countess of Salisbury's daughter. Your second cousin, I believe?"

"Sorry, I thought I was alone. But, it's nice to meet you." replied Arthur as he turned to face her properly. She was dressed in simple blue and silver gown of silk, with a French hood complimenting the delicate features of her face. He remembered her family well. "So, what is your role in the coronation?"

Ursula rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically.

"Well, myself and Gertrude are in charge of the Queen's Wardrobe. We're making sure everyone is fitted with the correct ceremonial robes. I just needed to take some air," she explained. "Insane, isn't it?"

"What is?" he asked, decided that he wasn't too bothered about who Gertrude was.

"All of that," she made an expansive gesture towards the flotilla, still thrilling the crowds along the banks of the Thames. "Gertrude was telling me all about the new Queen."

She stopped abruptly, and Arthur recognised his cue to look scandalised and insist she tell him all about what the mysterious Gertrude has to say about the merits of Queen Anne. But, Court gossip was another of life's ills that had him running for his life. He turned his face resolutely to the flotilla, and noticed that the Queen was now disembarking. With a silent sigh of relief, he bid the lady farewell, and ducked down the steps that led to the forecourt of the fortress. It was time to make his first public acknowledgement of Queen Anne.

* * *

><p>Queen Anne stepped off the flotilla, and swallowed the wave of nausea that swept over her. She was hot and flushed from sitting so long in the late summer sunshine, and her face was damp with sweat. But none of her ladies noticed as they fussed about her gown and hair. So, she said nothing, and looked back at the barge bobbing in its moorings. She had travelled by barge a hundred times and more, but that was the only one that had made her nauseous. She sent up a silent prayer that she was not falling ill now; not on her coronation day.<p>

She took a deep breath of air, and turned to look up at the Tower, where her brand new apartments awaited, and felt a surge of excitement. A surge strong enough to make her forget how rotten she had begun to feel.

"This is it, sister."

Anne turned to find Mary, her elder sister, at her side beaming brightly. Finally, Anne had someone that she could talk to in confidence.

"Wasn't the pageant wonderful?" Anne gushed as she pulled Mary into a hug. "Did you see the dragons breathe their fire?"

"Oh, and the boys from Eton were such sweet things," Mary added. "The voices of angels, the lot of them!"

There was so much that Anne wanted to gossip about with Mary, but their time was still limited, and so many events lay ahead. Their talk would have to wait. At that moment, Sir William Kingston, the Lieutenant of the Tower appeared; Arthur at his side. The two men approached her, and the crowds fell silent again as they sunk into low bows of deference.

"Your Majesty," Arthur addressed her first. "I offer you my services as a humble subject to his Queen."

Anne smiled and held out her hand for him to kiss.

"Rise, Your Grace," she bid him, gratified at his address. He was a subject, and she was his Queen. She glanced around, making sure that everyone had taken note.

Once Kingston had made his address, Anne and her retinue were escorted into the Tower itself. The Apartments had been refurbished to include a new Great Hall, a spacious new dining room, and a sleeping chamber for her. The ladies took it all in with wide eyed wonder, but Anne was tired already. She lay down on the bed, still dressed in her red velvet gown and coronet, even with the silk slippers still on her feet.

Once the men had gone, and they were alone, she ushered Mary inside the bed chamber so they could talk privately. The nausea had been playing on Anne's mind all day, and she had an inkling as to what it could be. As soon as Mary stepped back through the door, Anne was on at her.

"I am with child," she said, sitting up against the bolster of the bed. "I am sure of it."

Mary looked less than convinced as she sat down on the edge of the mattress. A frown darkened her features, and her gaze raked slowly over Anne's body, taking in the completely flat stomach and less than voluptuous breasts.

"It is still early days, Anne," she replied. She didn't mean to dampen her spirits; rather she wanted to curb Anne's enthusiasm lest she be in for a bitter disappointment. "Two months, at most."

"But, now I think on it, I am late," insisted Anne, not hearing her sister's words. "And when I got off the barge I was nearly sick, and sometimes I feel hot and dizzy. They're signs, are they not?"

Mary hesitated before answering. "They're signs of a lot of things, and I pray it is a child because if its something you ate you'll be throwing up all over the archbishop of Canterbury at the formal crowning."

Anne looked crestfallen. She lay back on the mattress, and looked up at the canopy. Her hands travelled down the front of her bodice, as though trying to detect the tiny jump of a baby pulse through the fabrics. Her eyes shone in the semi-darkness, and Mary began to feel guilty for dashing her hopes. To compensate, she tried another tack and make it sound as though she were taking Anne seriously.

"How late are you?" she asked. "And, are your breasts tender?"

"Two weeks, at least," replied Anne, a new spark of hope glittering in her eyes. "I suppose they are more tender. I think they're swelling, too?"

"It is too early for that," Mary laughed. "Look, Anne, don't get your hopes up, please. Just wait it out for a few more weeks, at least, before you tell anyone."

"So you're saying I could be with child?"

"I am not saying you aren't," Mary replied, picking her words carefully. "Just, be careful."

But Anne was barley listening. Her eyes were glazed with a far away look as she settled down for a nap. "I am," she stated. "I can feel it. There's a son in there."

* * *

><p>By the evening of the fourth and final day of the ceremonies, everyone involved was tired and irascible. What had started out as an extravagant carnival had become wearisome and exhausting. The men who'd been honoured along with Anne; Arthur among them, had not slept for two days, and spent that whole time on their feet. The over night vigil had been tedious in the extreme, only for it to be followed by the terrifying moment of crowning.<p>

Everyone who'd been packed inside the Abbey held their breath as the new Queen's head was anointed with the sacred oil. Not until she had been led back to the throne, and the archbishop lowered the crown of st. Edward the Confessor onto Queen Anne's head, did they breathe more easily. Then the archbishop's voice rang out clearly across the hall, carrying to the rafters:

"Anne, Queen of England, Ireland, and France."

All the years of planning and plotting for the Boleyn's had finally come to fruition.

This day belonged to Anne alone, and not even King Henry was permitted to divert the adoration of his people away from her. He watched the whole ceremony from behind a latticed screen, concealed from view in a box that had been made especially for the occasion. Only the French and Venetian ambassadors kept him company.

Arthur, therefore, found himself at a loss. Once the Queen had sampled the wares, and distributed the platters of food out among her subjects, the meal finished, he found himself lurking on the fringes of the celebrations like a spare part. Just to give himself something to do, he brought a nice decanter of Burgundian wine to the Queen's table. Anne received it graciously, and introduced him to some of her ladies. He met Jane Parker, Jane Seymour, Mary Boleyn, and Mary Howard (the daughter of Thomas Howard). But even as he left, he'd already forgotten which name belonged to which face. All those Mary's and Jane's simply melted into one another to form a beautifully decorated single entity.

Back among the crowds, he found himself alone again. His sister was dancing with her husband, the Duke of Suffolk. Margaret was immersed in conversation with her ladies, and two admiring gentlemen. No doubt, some toe curling game of Courtly love, and Arthur was loathe to intrude. But, as one woman broke away, and began walking towards him, the recognition hit him and he elbowed the dancing couples aside to reach her.

"Lady Elizabeth," he called to her and reached for her arm.

She turned to look at him, and smiled brightly.

"Your Grace!" she cried as she finally recognised him in return. "How lovely to see you."

It was Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the duke of Buckingham.

"I hear you're married to the duke of Norfolk, now?" Arthur said as they bobbed and weaved through the crowds to stand at the sides and talk in some degree of privacy.

"That's right," she said, wrinkling her nose. "But lets not talk about him. He is an impossible man!" she laughed.

"So, how's your father? Not like him to miss a party; most surprised at his absence."

"Don't be too surprised; he's dead."

Arthur was instantly gripped by the most acute embarrassment. "Oh!" he stated flatly. There was so much he needed to catch up on, if only to avoid moments like these.

"Executed, in fact," she added.

The atmosphere grew heavy between them, and Arthur found himself at a loss for words.

"Sorry," he feebly replied, and diverted his gaze back to the dancers and minstrels.

The conversation with his old friend limped to a staggeringly embarrassing halt, and sensing the awkwardness she had caused, Elizabeth backed away. Making an excuse about needing to see her impossible husband, she melted into the crowds, leaving Arthur alone again. He took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant just to give his hands something to hold. His own wife, of course, was not expected to attend the Coronation. In fact, he had not seen her at all since the trial. Catherine was travelling out to Ludlow to fetch her daughter back to London. Arthur understood, of course, but her absence left him completely alone.

Still acutely embarrassed by his faux pas with Elizabeth, he suddenly thought of Ursula Pole, again. If he needed to catch up and avoid any more Stafford moments, he decided she sounded like a good place to start. Mary had stopped dancing, and Arthur found her nursing a drink with Charles Brandon.

"You haven't seen Ursula Pole have you?" asked Arthur as he finally reached her.

"Ursula Pole?" repeated Mary, sounding both curious and confused.

Charles grinned widely. "You old dog, Arthur," he guffawed. "Didn't take you long to get some lusty wench, did it?"

Mary shot him a withering look, and Arthur tried to sound amused.

"No really, its not that," he replied. "I just need to talk to her about something that happened at the Tower."

"Oh I see," Charles said, tapping his nose. "What happens at the Tower, stays at the Tower. That's right, isn't it?"

"No really, its nothing improper!" Arthur insisted.

"Charles!" Mary snapped, and the duke shut up immediately. Arthur had to admire Mary's command of the situations. "Don't listen to him, Arthur. He is teasing you."

"I was not!" Charles retorted, looking scandalised. "I was congratulating his grace on his success among our esteemed lady folk."

Mary sighed deeply, and turned back to Arthur. "I have not seen lady Ursula for a while now, but I am sure Lady Exeter knows where she is." Mary got to her feet, and frowned as she searched the faces around them. "Gertie!" she called out at the top of her voice.

"Coming, Your Grace!" a disembodied voice replied from among the crowd.

"Gertrude would be so good as to take my brother to Ursula Pole?" asked Mary as a woman emerged from a knot of revellers, drink in hand and flushed in the face.

"Of course," Gertrude replied, beaming up at Arthur. He wondered if this was the same Gertrude that Ursula had spoken of three days ago, at the Tower.

"Follow me," she instructed him as she led the way through the Abbey, and out into the open. Outside, couples were canoodling out of view of the crowds inside. Others talked in privacy, and a few had taken to jumping into the river to cool off after another hot late summer's day.

"You know what Ursula is like about crowds," Gertrude said. Arthur was about to say he didn't actually know Ursula at all, but she gave him no time to say anything. "She'll be out here somewhere, though."

Gertrude lifted her skirts above her ankles as she trod carefully over the churned up dirt tracks that led to the gates of the Abbey. Outside, it was refreshingly cool, and Arthur relished the breeze on his skin. Gertrude seemed happier, too. But, there was no sign of Ursula.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you," she said with a shrug. "We better get back inside to witness the rest of the farce!"

"I prefer to stay out here for a while," Arthur replied.

"I'll stay with you, then," she said as she joined him leaning against the railings that ran around the perimeter of the Abbey. "I'm Gertrude Blount, by the way. I am married to your Cousin, Henry Courtenay."

"The Marquis of Exeter?" he asked. "My aunt Catherine's son?"

Gertrude smiled. "That's him," she confirmed. "He's being made to serve the Queen today, while Ursula and I had to make sure everyone had the right ceremonials. Yes, all us royal rivals have been corralled into serving her majesty. My nephew is Henry Fitzroy, your bastard nephew. Even he is here in some slavish capacity. Small wonder poor Princess Mary isn't here devoting herself to serving the Queen."

"Mary is no longer a Princess," he pointedly reminded her, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. Gertrude paused, and sighed.

"Look, I don't have to like Boleyn, I only have to serve her," she replied defiantly. "And I am serving her."

"No one seems to like her," Arthur stated. "What has she done to you? What has she done to anyone, beside capture the heart of a man who everyone thought was married already?"

"You miss the point, Your Grace," replied Gertrude, still not relenting an inch. "First of all, she was meant to be married to the earl of Northumberland. Then, she was courting the poet, Thomas Wyatt-" she broke off, her face creased in confusion. "- or was it the other way around? I think she snared the poet, and then drew up a contract between herself and the earl after the poet was hopelessly devoted to her. But, her family also wanted her to marry the earl of Ormond. If that is not enough to cast doubts in your mind, sir, then what do you make of the King's relations with Mary Boleyn?"

"I think its ancient history," Arthur replied firmly.

"Again, you miss the point," Gertrude interjected. "Before you reappeared, and everyone thought that the King and Catherine of Aragon were married lawfully; that marriage was being tried on grounds that it was not legal because yourself and Catherine had known each other carnally. Well, is this marriage not unlawful because the King was fucking Anne's sister for about two years before he met her? What do you think of that?"

"What I really think is that we should cease and desist with this conversation right away," replied Arthur. "You're my cousin's wife, and my nephew's aunt, Lady Blount. Your private thoughts are your own, but I would be careful who you confide in. Good day to you."

With that he pushed himself away from the railings and made for the entrance to the Abbey. But, as he went, Gertrude's voice trailed after him.

"Just wait until you get to know her," she said, teasingly. "You'll soon be seeking our opinions."

Arthur very much doubted that. He didn't turn around, instead he kept on walking, and re-entered the Abbey, where he ran straight into Ursula.

"The duchess of Suffolk said you were looking for me?" she said.

She was dressed now in a gown of red velvet, demonstrating her status as a noblewoman of the Realm. He looked back over his shoulder, to where Gertrude was now in conversation with another woman. He couldn't shake the feeling that she had lured him outside just to vent spleen on him alone and out of earshot of the others.

"Are you all right?" asked Ursula, seeing his complexion blanch.

"Fine," he replied. "I was just talking to your friend out there. Gertrude."

"You'll have to excuse her," Ursula laughed. "She can be rather forthright in her views."

"Forthright!" he laughed. "Its borderline treason."

"She doesn't mean it," Ursula pointed out. "She and Catherine really are very close friends, and she resented what the Queen did to her."

Arthur let it go as they returned to the celebrations inside Westminster Hall. The Queen, he noticed, had retired from the top table, presumably exhausted from the events of the last four days. But, the dance continued.

"So, what did you want me for?" she asked. "A dance?"

Arthur had had enough of trying to catch up on the events of past few decades. He was fed up of being alone among crowds of people he barely knew. One attempt at integration led him to causing great offence; the second nearly led to treason. Yes, he had enough of trying to talk to these people. He smiled, and gave a small nod.

"Yes," he replied. "Just a dance. Nothing more."

Ursula returned a shy smile, and blushed endearingly as she held out her hands. He took them in his own, and pulled her in close. Together, they danced to the slow, lilting tune that was being played by the musicians. He glanced up, over Ursula's shoulder, and spotted his brother in law. Charles looked back at him with a grin, and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Suppressing a laugh, Arthur buried his face in Ursula's shoulder as the dance continued.


	9. Liberty

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments are all greatly appreciated, so thank you! The usual disclaimers apply here; I own none of this.

Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: Liberty. <strong>

For a duke, Arthur had very little by way of belongings. He had left everything behind at the last monastery he worked at, and in the small house he rented. But, he still had his clothes for the Coronation, and one small dog, Merlin, to pack away for his move to The More. With his spare set of clothes in his bag, and the dog at his heel, he took one last look around the cell that had been his home since May.

He was supposed to have been out before now. However, he'd hung on; waiting to see if Catherine would come for him. He was up and down from the window, looking to see if her carriage clattered into the forecourt below his window. She never came, and he could delay his departure no longer. He had to catch the tide if he was to make it to Northamptonshire by night fall.

His newly appointed household staff had been preparing his new home, a Castle near Rickmansworth, all day. Cardinal Wolsey had gifted it to him. To Arthur's surprise, Wolsey had also gifted York Place to Queen Anne. She was currently refurbishing it to her own tastes, and renaming it Hampton Court. He couldn't begin to fathom why the Cardinal had suddenly decided that he had too many properties.

"Come along, Merlin," he said as he picked up the puppy and kissed it's velvet head. "Looks like its just you and me."

"And me."

Catherine rounded the corner just as Arthur emerged from the cell. Behind her, William Kingston lit the way with a torch. Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at her for a moment while he tried to compose himself.

"I waited for you," he said. "But I thought you weren't coming."

Catherine sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "I wasn't going to," she replied. "But, for what it is worth, we are husband and wife. For better or for worse. Till death do us part."

Arthur looked away, at a loss for how he could answer her. But, she linked her arm through his, and together, with William Kingston playing deaf, she walked him through the winding passageways of the Tower. Her carriage was waiting at the front entrance, and not the rear, where he'd been checking every ten minutes. In the back, with an attendant he recognised as Lady Salisbury, was a young girl whom Arthur had not met before. She had Catherine's auburn hair, but Henry's dazzlingly blue eyes and pale skin. She beautiful, but tiny.

Lady Mary looked up at Arthur, and got out of the carriage. She curtseyed in a perfunctory way, and promptly got back inside. She made no attempt to speak with Arthur. Lady Salisbury gave him an apologetic look, but turned to fuss over Mary.

"My daughter," said Catherine in a low voice. "You must give her time, Arthur. Her whole world is torn asunder."

"Of course!" replied Arthur. "I understand completely."

The two of them climbed into the carriage with the help of a footman. From here, they would go to the riverside, where their new barge was waiting for them. From there, they were bound for home for the first time in thirty years.

* * *

><p>Queen Anne spat the bitter residue of vomit out into the small silver basin, and groaned audibly. In the weeks since her coronation the nausea had built, and now manifest itself with great bouts of vomiting every morning. Worse still, if she caught the scent of roasting meets, or frying foods, it would trigger the sickness no matter what time of day it was.<p>

Just to compound the matter, she would be swaying with sickness one minute, and ravenous the next. When the hunger came, she had to have cherries dipped in fresh honey, and God help anyone who told here there were none. Henry did his best not to look disgusted when he watched her dip the cherries in the honey, then stuff them by the dozen into her mouth. Then, she got the fish cravings, and the yearning for the smell of leather shoes. That was too much for Henry. He gladly set up a production line to cater for her cravings, but always averted his gaze when she began breathing in the heady stench of a used shoe as though it were the latest flower scent.

"I can't help it," she would say, pleadingly. "Its your son."

She was thrilled to be carrying the King's child, and despite the sickness she hoped it was the first of many. But, she couldn't deny the drawbacks. Now, as she was face down over the silver basin, it was hard to smile and do her duty. She lay back on the bed, and closed her eyes while Mary, her sister, emptied the basin and rinsed it out.

"It will pass after a few more weeks," said Mary, trying for all she was worth to sound encouraging. "In the meantime, I have good news. Brother George is back from France."

Anne sat bolt upright again, a smile back on her face. "When?" she asked, newly enthused. "Its been so long since he was home."

Mary dried out the bowl, and came to sit by Anne's side. "Soon," she replied. "He must go to Rochford House and sort out some business. Then, he will be here to serve you for so long as you need him."

Mary then reached for a cloth that had been seeped in cold, clean water. She wrung it out, and mopped Anne's brow.

"Oh that's wonderful," sighed Anne, relishing the cool sensation against her flushed skin. "Henry is on his way over, and we need to talk. Could you help me dress, now?"

Mary gave a nod and rose to prepare Anne's loose, informal gown, and a warm cloak to put over it. She called in Jane Seymour to help with the Queen's hair. She was a quiet girl, always on hand to perform her duties thoroughly and discreetly.

"Thank you, Lady Seymour," Anne said as the girl fitted a hood over her head to keep her hair tidy for the King. "Mary, stay with me, if you can?"

She did not really need to ask. The sisters would always be on hand for each other no matter what. As soon as Anne had washed her mouth at with water infused with fresh herbs, Henry was in her outer gallery. Mary Howard showed him in, just as Jane Seymour vacated the chamber with a curtsey to Anne.

Henry beamed at her, letting his gaze rove over the length of her body with just the briefest of pauses at her belly. Then, he crossed the room and embraced her closely, breathing in her scent.

"You're still sick?" he asked, frowning down at her.

"Its nothing, my love," she lied. "Anything to safely deliver your son into this world." She meant that, though.

Henry squeezed her tight, and kissed her. "You're still flat though," he said. "I want to see you grow. I want to see our baby grow!"

He was like an overgrown child, and it made her laugh. It made her heart melt. "Patience," she urged him. "Patience, and he will grow. I promise to keep you fully updated. The first bump, and you will know. The first kick, and you will know. I swear."

Henry tilted her chin up, and pulled a distasteful expression. "If he kicks you too hard, tell me. I shall give him a stern ticking off for it when he is born."

Anne snorted with laugher as she rested her face against his broad chest. She couldn't believe how much she loved him. She never thought that love even existed. Marriage was a contract entered into at the convenience of ones' family. But she, of all women, had been blessed with a love match. But, she still had business to discuss. She led him over to a window seat and asked Mary to fetch them both some wine.

"Darling, you remember the servants we sent out to that monastery to fetch Arthur's belongings back to him?" she asked.

"Yes, the one in Northamptonshire."

"That's right. Well, they found an illegal coining factory on the premises," explained Anne. "A coining factory in a monastery!"

Henry whistled. "So much for chastity, obedience, and poverty," he said with a mirthless laugh. "But, darling Nan, you are with child. Please, do not concern yourself with these things."

Anne paused while she took a sip of the wine that Mary had brought over, as she thought things over. She didn't want to sound dismissive of Henry's concerns. She placed the glass back down on the table at her side, and looked back at him earnestly.

"But, I find that now I am with child, I worry more than ever," she explained. "I worry about what kind of a Christian society this Prince will be born into. One where monks fleece the poor, and bring whores to their beds, and flagrantly disregard God's holy commandments."

Henry could see that familiar spark of passion in those dark eyes. She never lost her passion, and he thought that she would, once she was Queen. He knew he should have known better. He leaned over the small space that lay between them, and squeezed her hand for reassurance.

"Nan," he said, planting a kiss on her cheek. "I am taking action against the corruption in the Church. I promise you. I will take action against this monastery, too. I will close the bad ones down, if need be. But, I have had communication with the Pope, and he is not happy with what I have done so far."

He regretted informing Anne immediately. Her face was suddenly livid with anger, and she was about to get to her feet and pace nervously, as was her wont in times of stress, until he stopped her.

"But how dare the Pope in Rome try to control you?" she asked, eyes ablaze with a passion, now. "All you have done is taken down Wolsey a peg or two. His Palaces were grander than yours, and you are the King. Not Wolsey!"

"Anne, I rewarded Wolsey for his excellent service," Henry retorted. "And he was an excellent minister, as well as clergyman. Never, not once, has he failed me. And as well, he gifted those homes of his own free will. I think he realised that he was getting above himself. The people had always wondered at his … grandeur."

Anne took a deep breath, and relaxed. She knew that Henry was right, and she shouldn't be getting into a froth. It was the last thing the baby needed.

"I know, darling," she said, sounding much calmer. "I just … I just want to make a difference, as Queen. I want to help, and make things better for the people."

"And you will," he assured her with a smile, and a surge of affection. "Listen, I am sending your friend, Thomas Cranmer, on embassy to Nuremberg. But do not expect me to make peace with that monster, Luther. Or that English heretic hiding in Luther's skirts, either. But, what I do agree to is an English bible. I will commission one especially for you; to celebrate the arrival of our son."

"You will?" she asked as a smile spread across her face. "And I can have it here, and all my ladies can read it?"

Henry nodded. "But, it does not leave your privy apartments," he cautioned her. "It is an ex-communicable offence; not that you would be so bothered about that!"

Anne shifted across the seat and lay herself down in his arms. "Excommunicated from a church of idolatry, vice and corruption is no excommunication at all," she laughed as she lay back against his chest and closed her eyes. "But darling, thank you. I do appreciate all that you have done for me."

Henry wrapped his arms protectively around her, and nuzzled her neck. He refrained from telling her that he was in talks with both Thomas Cranmer, and Thomas Cromwell. He didn't want to over-excite her. But, they had plans for a census of all Church property. Once the census was complete, he would know just to what extent the corruption was infecting the Church. For now, however, all he wanted to do was hold his pregnant wife in his arms.

* * *

><p>The meal was held in silence. The only sound was that of knife scraping against the silver plate, or the occasional snap of a bone as a piece of the venison was cut away. Arthur looked down the length of the table, to where Catherine picked at her food, and looked in any direction other than his. Mary, too, sat in mutinous silence as she ate. Never did he expect a heroes welcome, but nor did he expect this terrible silence. They were not shouting at him, or raging against him as Henry had done; just ignoring him. Pretending he wasn't there, was a hundred times worse than the alternative. He felt like a naughty child just waiting for the punishment to come.<p>

Arthur, unable to eat for the churning of his stomach, pushed the platter away and began twirling the stem of his glass in his fingers as his gaze settled to the far wall. A tapestry depicting a joust was hung up there. The room in general was vast, echoing, and draughty. It did not feel like home; it felt more like he'd broken in and started squatting there, and he expected the real owners to turn up and throw him out at any minute.

Catherine, sitting opposite him, set down her eating knife and pursed her lips as she regarded him coolly. But, when he tried to meet her gaze, she quickly looked away again. The silence continued uninterrupted. After ten more agonising minutes, Mary also set down her knife and fork. Lady Salisbury, who had been waiting at the side of the room, appeared and offered her hand to lead the girl away.

"Thank you, Lady Salisbury," Arthur murmured without looking at her.

Mary cast him a sidelong glance of utter contempt which he affected not to notice. Even at Lady Salisbury's silent signal, she refused to curtsey to her uncle. Catherine didn't even bother trying to get Mary to show some respect. Arthur wasn't bothered, though. His niece seemed immensely gratified to think that she was causing him grave offence. She didn't seem to realise that not a single soul had shown him such deference in thirty years; therefore he wasn't about to get precious about it with her.

Once Mary and Lady Salisbury had gone, however, that left Arthur and Catherine alone. Arthur focused on the sound of Lady Salisbury's footsteps receding down the outer-gallery, as he tried to take his mind off the tension in the room that had now mushroomed. He picked up a napkin to give his hands something to do, and found himself yearning to be back in his little cell in the Tower.

The room was suddenly filled with the grating sound of a chair scraping along the flagstones as Catherine pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet. She looked down the length of the table, where Arthur also got up out of politeness. His stomach flipped in anticipation of a word form her lips.

"I shall bid you good night," she said. Adding, almost as an after though: "husband."

That was it. His heart sank as she turned her back to him, and began walking away. A lady approached to escort her out, and before he knew what he was doing, Arthur set his glass down heavily on to the tabletop.

"Wait!" he called out as he got to the door way.

Catherine came to a halt, and he could see her shoulders rise and her body stiffen in irritation. After a second, in which he could sense the indignant eye rolling, she turned back to face him.

"Yes?" she asked coldly.

Arthur could feel himself wilting again. "Don't you want to talk?" he asked.

"About what?" she asked, taking a few measured steps towards him. "About how you abandoned me? About how you faked your own death, rather than face up to your responsibilities? Because that is for you to talk to me about, Arthur. You're the one who has the explaining to do, not me. So whenever you're willing to fill me in on the details, I will want to listen."

Arthur couldn't argue with what she said. Feeling himself under scrutiny again, he lost his tongue. The way she looked at him, the way Mary behaved around him, made him feel like an intruder in what was supposed to be his own home; his own life. He hung his head, and made no further protestations as Catherine turned on her heels and walked away again. He watched her leaving until she rounded a corner in a passage just beyond the outer-gallery, and vanished from his sight.

He sat back down, tapping the tip of his forefinger against his glass as he waited. Merlin the dog snuffled at his lap, but Arthur ignored him. Finally, the woman he was waiting for reappeared. He got to his feet, and took Lady Salisbury to one side.

"Margaret," he said quietly. "I have been thinking, perhaps you could do with some help in Lady Mary's household?"

"What do you have in mind, Your Grace?" she asked, looking a little affronted at the implied suggestion that was struggling to cope with her charge.

"I was thinking, perhaps your daughter, Lady Ursula, could come and help you?" he suggested.

"Oh," replied Margaret. "You were impressed with her dancing, then?"

Arthur willed himself not to blush, but his emotions defied him. "I was thinking that she could teach Mary," he lamely added.

"If it is Your Grace's command, I will send for her," Margaret replied ruefully. She paused for a moment, as she selected her next words. "Ursula is my only daughter. She is very precious to us."

Arthur understood the coded warning clearly. Do not make a whore of our only daughter, she is all we have to marry off into a rich family and improve our prospects. It always boiled down to the same thing.

"She will be treated with the utmost respect," Arthur assured her.

Lady Salisbury dipped a quick curtsey as she went on her way. She was too proper to raise an issue, or quarrel with a duke. The last thing he wanted to do was abuse her trust. She had cared for him as a child. She had cared for almost all of the royal children. But Ursula was one of the few people who spoke to him like he was a human being. She had accepted him without first battering him for a decision made thirty years ago. Since leaving her at the Coronation, he felt the constant nagging need to back in her presence.


	10. The Book Of Hours

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; all your comments are greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks for reading, and reviews/constructive criticism welcome.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten: The Book of Hours. <strong>

Mary Boleyn fumbled with the lacing at the back the Queen's bodices, the cords now straining against her rapidly expanding middle. Anne's knuckles whitened as she gripped bed post, and leaned forwards, breathing in as much as she could. She could feel Mary tugging as the laces, struggling to untie the knot. Pregnancy left little room for dignity, and things were about to get worse. Lady Mary Howard stepped into the chamber, and announced the arrival of the King.

"God's death, sister, hurry up!" snapped Anne, looking over her shoulder at Mary who was still fighting to loosen the knots. "He can't see me like this."

"I'm … trying …" she hissed through gritted teeth.

Finally, Mary hooked her fingernail through the knotted cord, gave one firm tug and the bindings loosened. Anne lurched forwards, but caught herself in time, and panted, gasping in lungfuls of air, as though she had just emerged from deep waters, and groaned with relief.

"What happened?" Anne panted. "It was fine this morning!"

Mary hurriedly began organising a new, loose fitting but elegant gown for Anne to wear while receiving the King. Although the pregnancy was still relatively early, the swelling was already showing. A good sign, or so every said. However, Mary had bed news for Anne.

"You can't wear these bodices any more," she informed her. "You'll be swelling like a pan loaf from now until the babe is born."

"Wonderful," replied Anne as held out her arms for the new gown to slipped over her head. "Still, he's strong and he's healthy. That's all that matters."

Mary took Anne's hand and led her out into main apartments, where she and the King would be going over the day's business. These days, however, Henry would use any excuse at all to drop everything to come and see Anne. The visit was as likely to nothing, as it was business. He was seated, glass of wine in hand, when she entered. He got up, turned to face her, and beamed.

"You look beautiful," he greeted her. "Let me look at you."

Anne thought she looked like a beached whale, and that Henry was merely being considerate.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she replied as Mary eased her down into the seat opposite Henry's.

Once he, too, had sat back down, he leaned over and handed her a sheaf of papers that were left on a cabinet at his side.

"This," he said with a nod to the papers that Anne was now frowning at. "Is a report from my Church commissioners. They have investigated fifty monastic houses, and those are just some of the abuses they found."

Eagerly, Anne began reading the reports. The first came from an Abbey in Yorkshire. Concubines lodged in the cellar of the Prior's house, and the local parish littered with his bastard offspring. It was typical of what she had come to expect. But, the final report made her gasp in shock at the audacity of the monks. It seemed a pious and charitable house, at first glance. The monks travelled to nearest town, some twenty miles, to collect donations to distribute as alms amongst the poor of their neighbouring hamlet. However, on further inspection, the local hamlet was a settlement that had lain abandoned since the population was wiped out by Black Death some two hundred years ago. Even Anne could not begin to fathom how the abuses had lasted for all that time.

"Why did no one check that the ghost parishioners actually existed?" she asked, exasperated.

"No one questions the monks, Anne, except for the reformers," replied Henry. "And the hamlet was said to be inaccessible, except in summer. It was remote; isolated even. There are several such places around the country that do exist, so why question this one?"

"What is to be done?" asked Anne as she handed the report to Mary, who handed it back to the King.

"The whole lot are to be closed down," he replied bluntly. "All fifty will be shut and sold off to the highest bidder within the month."

Anne smiled contentedly. "The people will be relieved, and reassured, that you have taken such decisive action to protect them from such corruption," she assured him, But, he looked hurt, as though he had taken it as a personal insult. "Is something else the matter?"

Henry looked at her, his expression unreadable. He looked away again, and agitatedly ran his hands through his hair. "Its Wolsey," he said. "I got a letter from Cromwell. Wolsey's been ill. Very ill."

"Is Cromwell still serving him?" asked Anne, missing the point about the Cardinal's illness.

Henry frowned at the question, but swept it aside.

"Of course," he replied. "They are good friends. But Wolsey is likely to die, Anne. I know how you feel about him, but he always been there for me."

Anne hadn't meant to sound crass. She got to her feet, and wrapped her arms around Henry.

"I know darling," she said. "I am sorry, I did not mean to be harsh."

The reports sounded grim. He was travelling back from York in the company of the earl of Northumberland, Harry Percy. They had reached Leicestershire, and the Cardinal was stricken with stomach pains, and then began to void black blood from his body. Henry returned her embrace, shifting her onto his lap so she could be more comfortable.

"I have to go away for a few days," he said. "A week or two at most."

Anne's body stiffened. "Why?"

"I need to see somebody," he replied vaguely. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

She was about to protest further, when Henry cut her off with a kiss. That done, he helped her get back to her feet and left. Anne watched him go, frowning at the door he had vanished through.

"Are you all right?" asked Mary as she came to walk Anne back to her bed chamber.

"I suppose he has a mistress, now," she said sadly. "I understand. I cannot lie with him because of the baby."

Even as she spoke, tears welled in her eyes. But Mary batted her concerns away.

"No, Anne. Its a business trip, I am certain of it."

Her emotions had been scattered to the four winds since she got with child. One minute ecstatic; the next crying over the most trivial of things. Earlier, she had snapped at one of her ladies, Madge Shelton, for reading some of Thomas Wyatt's poetry, when she should have been attending to the Privy Chamber. Now she was growing suspicious of her own husband. She linked her arm through Mary's, and stifled her tears.

"You're right," replied Anne as she rationalised it all in her head. "I'm being silly."

But, as she lay back down on the bed, ready for a much needed rest, doubts shadowed her thoughts. Henry hadn't wanted to tell her where he was going. He was cagey, and vague about when he would return. But, he had been as attentive as ever. She ran her hands over the growing bump. 'When I have a son,' she thought to herself. 'He will never stray again.'

* * *

><p>Arthur looked down at the book in his hands. It belonged to Catherine, and he had found it lying in the Solar. The frontispiece was loose, the leather jacket battered and scuffed, and the pages were hanging from their bindings. He turned it over, and dug his finger into a dent where a gem had once been fixed. When it was new, it would have been something special. He lifted the jacket, and read the fading, scrawled, inscription on the page, above the publishers colophon.<p>

_'Dear Catalina, Princess of Wales. For your journey through many lands, and across the narrow sea, I give you this to guide and keep you. Remember me, your mother, Queen Isabella."_

It was an old book of hours, given to Catherine to mark out the milestones in her life. Her wedding to him had been noted in black ink that was now fading. Catherine had noted her first meeting with Queen Elizabeth, and the dance at the wedding feast with Prince Henry. Arthur thought that she had fallen in love with him, and he with her. But, scrawled in the margin of the relevant page were the words: 'interminable little show off' in Spanish. Even all these years later, he felt himself flush at his misjudged presumption.

He was about to reach into his bag to get the right tools to mend the damaged book, when curiosity overwhelmed him again. He thumbed the pages delicately until he reached the month of April, 1501, not long after the wedding pages. He sought the correct date, and held his breath as he tried to make out what Catherine had written about his death. The ink had run, the characters that made up each word blurred and flowed into each other making it indecipherable. That whole part of the page had been spoiled by tears.

Arthur snapped the book shut and dropped it onto the table. He hadn't known what to expect, but for some reason he hadn't expected that. But she grieved for him. The evidence, louder than any words written on a fading page, was right in front of him. He got to his feet, and looked out of the Solar window. Catherine and Mary were walking their dogs together in the grounds of the Castle. Lady Salisbury and the other women were trailing behind them. He willed her to look up, but Catherine was engrossed in conversation with her daughter, oblivious to what was going in his head.

"Your Grace," said Ursula from across the room. "Is everything all right?"

Arthur had forgotten that she was even there. She had one of Mary's gowns spread out on her lap, and she was just finishing edging the hems with some gold threads to repair some wear and tear in the fabric. She set it to one side, and crossed the room to where he stood at the window, and circled her arm around his waist.

"Forgive me," he said, placing an arm around her shoulders. "I just … I just got a bit of a shock is all."

Ursula turned to look at the book lying on the table, and frowned. "From that?" she asked with a nod its direction.

Arthur, already feeling lewdly voyeuristic for reading what was contained in its pages, couldn't bring himself to tell Ursula what he had read. Instead, he just shrugged his shoulders, and steered her back towards her seat by the fire. He sat there and pulled her into his lap.

"I'm just mending it for Catherine," he explained. "Its just an old book, nothing more."

Ursula knew there was something else, but she did not press the issue. But the small smile faded from her lips as she rested her cheek against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. She closed her eyes, listening to the beat of his heart as she gathered her thoughts. She laced her index finger through the open collar of his shirt, and caressed his chest, coming to a rest over his left breast, where the heart beat jumped beneath his skin.

"I think you still love her," she said, her voice distant and low. "But a marriage isn't like an old book. You can't just tie the loose bindings a little tighter and hope it all holds together."

"Its not love," he replied with a sigh. "Its far more complicated than that."

* * *

><p>King Henry dismounted his horse outside The More. He sniffed at the air again, relishing the cool autumnal breeze; always welcomed after the oppressive heat of the summer. The leaves on the trees were beginning to bronze in the turning of the year, and soon, he sensed, the winter would be setting in all around the country. He shrugged the sables tighter around his shoulders as he tossed the horses reins to the stable hand. As soon as his grooms, guards and servants had joined him, he set off into the grounds of the castle itself.<p>

He had barely reached the porch, when his daughter spotted him. Mary yelped with excitement, and tugged her hand free of Catherine's before tearing across the front lawns. Catherine managed a smile as she watched father and daughter being reunited. But, the visit was unexpected. There were no chambers prepared for the King, and she had not seen Arthur in over two days. They had been skilfully dodging each other for some time.

"Your Majesty," she said with a curtsey as she joined Mary at his side. "This is a surprise."

"Your Grace," replied Henry, now with Mary in his arms. "Forgive the intrusion, but I came on a secret errand."

He winked at her, making her laugh. Anne was obviously not willing to let him off the lead.

"Papa, has come to see us," Mary piped up enthusiastically.

"Come on, let's get inside its freezing," Henry stated, walking towards the door. "Did you miss me? I missed you?" he said to Mary, squeezing her tight.

Once they were inside the great hall, they warmed themselves by the fire with a glass of spiced wine from a cask rustled up by the servants. Others had been despatched to prepare chambers for the King, as already the dusk was settling in. He wouldn't be able to return to London that day. Catherine sighed at the sudden inconvenience, but at least Mary had not been forgotten. The King had brought her a gift of fabrics (for a new gown), and some books for her studies.

"I must speak with the duke," said Henry, once they had got settled in. "Any idea where he is?"

"I have not seen him today," replied Catherine. "But, our servant here can take you up to the Solar, he is probably in there."

"Excellent. But tell me, how is he settling back in?" he asked, taking Catherine aside so that they could speak privately, away from the hive of servants. "It must be an upheaval for him, and I worry. Is he well?"

Catherine look up him, and found herself struggling to reply. She found herself consumed by an irrational sense of guilt. She had no idea of how he was settling in, or of how he was feeling. She hadn't bothered to ask, and she hadn't bothered to consider the upheaval in his life. For want of anything better to say, she simply replied:

"I think it would be best for you to see him yourself."

* * *

><p>So it was that Henry found himself outside the solar door not five minutes later. He could hear the sound of his brother's voice, muffled by the closed door, so dismissed the servant who had escorted him through the castle, tossing him a silver coin as a tip as he went. He knocked once, but opened the door without waiting for an answer.<p>

As he stepped inside, however, the chamber's two occupants looked at him like two thieves caught in the act. A moment too late, there was a blur of flying skirts as Lady Ursula shot up from Arthur's lap and sank into a deep curtsey, as though she hoped that King had not noticed what she and Arthur were doing. Following Ursula's cue, Arthur got up and bowed, giving himself time to figure out how he was going to explain it all to Henry.

Henry looked from one to the other, and back again.

"Lady Pole," he said to her. "If you don't mind, I need to speak with His Grace in private."

Ursula was up at the door within the second, but as she left, she looked back over her shoulder. She smiled, and gave Arthur a nod of encouragement. As soon as the door was closed behind her, and her footsteps receded down the outer gallery, Henry led Arthur over to the window.

"What was all that about?" he asked, nodding towards the spot where Arthur and Ursula had been caught in each other's arms. "Does Cate know?"

"There is nothing to know-"

"That didn't look like nothing to me," snapped Henry. "I cannot have your royal blood, and hers, in a bastard child. Do you understand?"

Arthur sagged against the window behind his back, and sighed. "She stakes no claim to the throne," he said, trying to placate his brother's fear. "But that's not the point. We're just … friends. Friends who … console each other."

"Find consolation in the arms of your wife," retorted Henry. "Anyway, I haven't come here to lecture you on morality."

"Thank God."

"I have come to hire you," said Henry, placing his bag on the table, and taking out a large, leather bound volume. "This."

Arthur pushed himself away from the window ledge to look the book over. A Bible. He turned the fine parchment pages, noting their crisp newness. Each page had been hand painstakingly hand written. But, it was plain text. No illuminations had been added, and Arthur guessed that was his job.

"Its beautiful," he said. "And English. The Pope could excommunicate you for that."

"Never mind the Bishop of Rome," he spat. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "I want you to illuminate it. It's a surprise for Queen Anne. She has always wanted a decorated English Bible. Not some tattered old thing that's been smuggled into the country in the back of a wool crate, that smells of sheep by the time it reaches England."

Arthur paused, mid way through turning a page. He did not want to speak out of turn, or overreach himself. He was painfully aware that any advice he imparted to Henry may sound like he was trying to do the King's job, and that could lead to misunderstandings. But, if an occasion called for it, it was then.

"This Bible," he said. "It is only for the Queen's use?"

Henry paused; a hesitation that betrayed him.

"And her ladies," he replied at length. "Why shouldn't people be able to read the word of God, in their own language? What is the priests are trying to hide? That fact that Purgatory is not mentioned anywhere, or that Bishops of Rome are not mentioned anywhere?"

Arthur turned back to the book, and decided to withdraw from a debate. He agreed with the reformers, to an extent. He saw no harm in a Bible translated into the vernacular; that Latin was not the only language the devil couldn't understand. He loathed the corruption as much as anyone. But, he saw the path that Henry was on was a dangerous one; a collision course with the might of Rome. He, for one, wouldn't want to be around at the moment of impact.

"Just be cautious, brother," he advised, and then changed tack before they could stuck on any thorny issues. "I will do it, and I pray the Queen will like it well enough."

"No expense spared, and I'll reimburse you from my own Privy Purse," replied Henry, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "Thank you, Arthur."

With their business concluded, and the night settling in outside, the two of them dined alone together. The servants were admitted to bring in their meal of venison and beef. There were decanters of warmed wine left out, and then the staff were dismissed. It occurred to Arthur that they had never dined together, even before he left. The atmosphere was relaxed; the gesture spontaneous. It could even be called normal.

Once the first course had been finished, Henry set down his knife and fork, and topped up their glasses with red wine. It was only then that Arthur sensed another "talk" coming on, and he wasn't wrong.

"Catherine is a good woman," said Henry, frowning at his glass as though he were addressing it, rather than Arthur. "If I am honest, she probably deserves better than both of us."

"I know that," Arthur replied flatly.

Henry paused before speaking again. It seemed that Arthur was not the only who carefully chose his words. But eventually, he added:

"Perhaps you ought to speak with her. She may surprise you."

"Catherine won't even be in the same room as me," protested Arthur. "What can I do? I can't tie her up and make her listen."

"Catherine is a good woman," repeated Henry.

"So you said."

"You miss the point, Arthur," said Henry, fixing him in a hard stare. "She is a very good woman, and a very good wife. She knows why you have sent for the Pole girl, and she knows you're carrying on with her. She is just too good to take it up with you. Send the girl away, and you'll find Catherine to be far more amenable."

Arthur choked on his wine. "This started before I sent for Ursula!"

"No, it got worse when you sent for Ursula," Henry hotly retorted. "I know Cate. I know Cate better than anyone. I know how she feels, and I know what's etched in her heart. How hard did you try with Cate, before you summoned your mistress into her home?"

"She is not my mistress!"

"Cate's heard that one before," Henry laughed aloud. Once he calmed down, he calmly added: "I am speaking to you as your brother; man to man. Just give it one more try."

It was hard for him not to sound smug. But Henry thought of Anne, waiting for him at Hampton Court. He thought of the baby growing in her belly, and of the marital harmony that he had found with her. Their future was set. He wanted the same for Arthur, if possible. But he let the matter drop as they continued their meal.

"When do you return to Court?" asked Arthur as they finished eating.

"I am not sure," replied Henry as he rang the bell for the servants to re-enter. "In two days, I ride for Leicestershire. Wolsey is dying."

"The Cardinal?"

Henry nodded sadly. "Yes," he said. "I must make haste; Anne doesn't know about it. She'd get upset if she knew."

Arthur turned to look his brother in the eye, but bit back the words on his tongue. He couldn't help but wonder why the King of England was sneaking around behind his wife's back just to see his old friend. Instead, he decided to mind his own business, and let Henry's private life remain just that.

Once Henry had retired for the night, Arthur picked up the old book of hours again. He looked at its sorry state, and thought of Catherine. He could fix the book easily enough. He could make it as good as new. He slid the bulky bible to one side, and picked up the tools of his book trade. The servants were summoned to light fresh candles, and he prepared himself to make an effort.


	11. Getting Closer

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. I'd like to state the usual disclaimers, and that I own none of this. Thanks again to everyone who has added this as a favourite, as well as alerted this story.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: Getting Closer. <strong>

Whenever Anne lay flat on her back, her belly partially obscured her view. The physician's face now hovered over her as he poked and prodded at her, or occasionally lay his hand down flat, trying to feel for the position of the baby. She turned her face to the side where Mary sat, but she couldn't help looking back at the doctor, trying to read his expression. Was it good? Was it bad? She couldn't read his thoughts by simply interpreting the expression in his flint-grey eyes.

His cold hands kneaded softly at the bump beneath her thin chemise, and his brows knitted together in a frown of tight concentration. Mary looked politely interested, but otherwise unconcerned. Then Anne looked back at the physician, and he relaxed. He removed his hands; a gesture brought a sigh of relief from Anne, and he turned to his assistant to whisper some unheard instructions.

"Is something wrong?" asked Anne as she struggled to sit up.

She hadn't liked the way he was whispering to that assistant. It worried her. But the man turned back to her with a reassuring smile on his face.

"The heart beat is strong, Your Majesty," he assured her.

"Strong enough for a boy?" she asked, eager for affirmation.

"Oh, quite strong enough. Everything is as it should be."

Anne and Mary exchanged a smile as the physician bundled up his belongings before bowing out of the chamber. Although Anne was confident of the babies sex, she had already decided to consult another astrologer, anyway. Just to make sure. He was due to see her that afternoon.

Once the physician had left, Mary helped Anne back to her feet, and helped her back into her gown. This gown had been adapted to accommodate her expanding belly. Anne couldn't help but liken it to a marquee. Voluminous, unflattering, but surprisingly comfortable once she was inside it. Once she was dressed, she and her ladies took to the gardens. Now that riding had been ruled out, it was as close as she could get to exercise and she had come to relish her hour of freedom amongst the autumn flowers.

"Is there any word from Henry?" asked Anne as they walked around the fish ponds.

"Nothing," replied Mary. "A messenger came and announced the death of the Cardinal, though."

"I heard."

The news had not been unexpected, and Court was rife with rumour about Wolsey's condition. Some said that it had been divine justice; others, that it had been suicide. Both were nonsense, as far as Anne was concerned. But, with Henry away, her concern didn't run very far. She lay awake in bed every night imagining him in the arms of some unnamed mistress; a nebulous place where her face should be. It made her cry, and it made her want to lash out with equal force. No matter how much she told herself it was a business trip, she always came back to the mistress.

"He will be home soon," said Mary, as though she had guessed her sister's thoughts. "He knew that the Cardinal was dying, so perhaps he is sounding out possible replacements for him?"

Anne had to admit she that hadn't considered that, and it gave her something else to think about other than Henry sleeping with notional whores.

"Perhaps," she replied, non-committally. "It just hurts …" her words trailed off as she struggled against a tide that swelled inside her. "To think of him …"

Mary stopped, and faced her sister. "Anne, stop this," she firmly said. "Think of the baby."

Anne knew that all this upset would affect the baby. But sometimes, the more she tried to block these thoughts from her head, the more stubborn they became. It was as though they had taken root there, and they were possessing her. Sometimes, when she was in a fit of panic, she would say something rash, or hasty. Only the previous night she had demanded details from Mary about life as Henry's mistress, and called her "his whore". She knew that Mary had been hurt, but at her worst, she would wonder if Henry and Mary still looked at each other behind her back. She didn't want to doubt Mary. If she even doubted her own sister, she knew the situation was bleak indeed.

Once they were back inside; a groom was found waiting for them in the outer gallery of the Queen's apartments. He was ushered inside, and how bowed low before the Queen.

"His Majesty, the King, sent me ahead to give notice of his return, Your Majesty," he explained.

* * *

><p>The weather in Northampton was as bleak and foreboding as it was across the rest of the country. Arthur set aside Catherine's book of hours; now unrecognisable that it had been fully repaired and reset with gems and new paintwork in the cover, and closed the windows against the rain that began to patter down. Soon, if the louring clouds were anything to go by, there would be a full downpour. It was certainly not the weather to be travelling in, and regretfully, he turned back to Ursula.<p>

She stood in the room, swathed in her travelling cloak that was lined with miniver furs to muffle the worst of the chill winds that were picking up outside. Her small wooden travelling chest was packed and locked at her feet. The silence between them was similar to the silence of a funeral. She looked at him through sorrowful eyes; a small smile teasing at her lips.

"The King was unhappy to find me here in the first place," she said again. It was her way of telling him that none of this was his fault. "When he came back from wherever he'd been, he was even more unhappy to find me still here."

"I know," he replied as he crossed the room to where she stood. "I just … I liked having you here."

He raised the hood of her cloak himself, like a parent swaddling a child for its first outdoor adventure.

"And I liked being here," she said. "With you."

"But the King doesn't like it-"

"And what the King doesn't like..."

Her sentence went unfinished as he leaned in to kiss her goodbye. Just as he went to wrap his arms around her, she suddenly pulled away and turned to face the bookshelf pushed up against the side wall to the left of them. The tension spiralled, and to break it, Arthur leaned down and picked up her chest to carry it out to where her carriage awaited her.

"I'm sorry – it's better this way," she explained.

She was right. Long goodbyes only ever drew out the pain of inevitable separation, and the end result was always the same. He managed a small smile as he led the way outside, where the rain – as he predicted – now fell by the bucket load. Small puddles of churned up muddy water had already appeared, and the even the horses looked fed up. Their heads bent low in the battering raindrops.

The chest was secured to the back of the carriage, as Arthur offered his hand to Ursula to help her climb aboard. While the escort was getting ready for the journey, Arthur decided to wait with her, and climbed inside to sit beside her.

"Stay in touch, won't you?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied. "I'll keep you informed of everything, I promise."

"Do you remember what I told you about Gertrude Blount?" he asked. "About Queen Anne, and all these other men that people seem to think that she is married to?"

Ursula laughed. "How could I ever forget?" she replied. "Walking barefoot in Thomas Wyatt's chambers, indeed." She tutted like a disapproving parent. "And secretly marrying Northern earls."

"Yes, all that," replied Arthur. "I need you to go down south for me, to Exeter. Gertrude is your friend, and -"

"You want me to spy," Ursula finished the sentence for him.

Arthur paused as he thought of a better way to phrase it. "Not quite," he said. "I need you to keep an eye on her, and make sure she is not spreading it around. It could be for all our sakes."

For a long moment, all that could be heard was the drumming of the rain on the roof of the carriage. Ursula looked back at Arthur, wide eyed, and brows furrowed. She was fixing him with a look of concern.

"Are you afraid of something?" she asked. "What do you think could happen?"

"Nothing," replied Arthur, forcibly affecting an air of casual disinterest. "I just think it would be prudent to keep an eye on any potential trouble makers; without troubling the King about it."

As soon as Arthur had added in that detail, Ursula looked far more relaxed. Besides, she was unemployed now, and the Courtenay's had a young son, Edward. He was bound to need a Governess. There was a letter of recommendation from both Catherine and Arthur packed in her trunk, and that would swing any job for her. She leaned across and planted a kiss on Arthur's cheek; making him blush.

"Gladly," she replied.

At that moment, there was a thump as somebody jumped aboard the carriage, making it sway under the weight of another person.

"That's your guide," said Arthur. "Good luck, and God speed."

With that, he opened the door of the carriage again, and swung down and out into open. He could see her face, watching him, from the carriage as the horses were whipped into action. Their hooves were sinking into the marshy earth, and was dirty water ran down from the wheels in a spray as the carriage trundled away, and slowly out of sight. Once it was gone, Arthur turned back towards the house where Catherine and Mary would be sitting down to their afternoon meal. He had bridges to rebuild.

* * *

><p>Henry bounced into the privy chamber, calling out to Anne, and looking for an open armed welcome home from her. He found her sitting with her ladies, stitching clothes for the baby. She rose to her feet with the help of her sister when she saw him, and all he got was a chaste kiss on the cheek. The women at her sides all exchanged glances, and carried on with their work while the King and Queen repaired to their inner chambers.<p>

"Where were you?" asked Anne, once they were out of earshot of the others. "Who were you with?"

"I told you," replied Henry, sensing the tension in his wife. "I was attending to some business."

"Where?" Anne asked, searching him with her eyes, looking him up and down.

"I had to go and see Arthur."

Henry sounded defensive when he replied to her, and Anne picked up on it immediately.

"Arthur?" she repeated; wide eyed with disbelief.

"He is my brother!" retorted Henry as he flopped down into a seat beside the fire. He tried to turn his attention to some papers that were left on a nearby table, hoping that Anne would calm herself. But he could feel the intensity of her gaze boring into him. Anne stepped closer to Henry, pointing her finger at him accusingly.

"You said it was business."

"It was!" he snapped back at her. "It was for you, if you must know. It was meant to be a surprise."

Anne lowered her hand, and the anger dissipated from her expression; replaced by bewilderment as she continued to look down at him. Henry tossed the now crumpled papers to one side, and hauled himself out of his seat. He crosses the room, and entered his own privy chamber via the connecting door, letting it slam as he went. He was back a few moments later with the Bible in his hands; the one that he had collected from Arthur on his way back from Leicestershire. He thrust it into Anne's hands, and she looked down at it, opening the jacket to reveal the beautifully decorated pages, while Henry lapsed into a mutinous silence. She knew about her new gift; not that he was going to all this trouble over it.

For a moment, she stammered over an apology, but Henry held up a hand to silence her.

"Happy now?" he asked. "If you must know; I went to pay my last respects to the Cardinal as well."

Anne lowered the heavy book onto a nearby table. "I'm sorry," she said, linking her arm through his. "If you had just said something-"

"You're my wife, Anne," he retorted, shrugging her off. "I don't have to explain my every move, and if I did it would be more than tedious for you."

He took a deep, steadying breath, and composed himself. It wasn't first time they had fallen out, nor was it the worst of their rows, but it was the first time she had insinuated infidelity, and it had shaken him. He hadn't expected it from Anne.

"You're tired," he said, trying to explain her temper to himself than her. "I think I should leave you to rest."

He was exhausted himself. The journey had been long, he was grieving for a man who had been like a father to him, and to cap his worries, he'd been troubled by reports of unrest at the monasteries that he had closed down for corrupt practises. So, he kissed Anne goodnight, and left her standing her own chambers, watching him as he stalked off back through their connecting door.

* * *

><p>Catherine closed Mary's door as quietly as she could. They had just finished reading, and now the girl was finally drifting off to sleep. Lady Salisbury was still sitting with her, in case she woke up during the night. So Catherine had the rest of the evening to herself. Once she was clear of Mary's chambers, she headed straight for the solar and ordered a nice glass of wine from a lingering servant who looked as though he had too much time on his hands.<p>

Once she inside, she let herself drop into a comfortable chair beside the open fire. The warmth and the light on a dark, cold evening was most welcome. On the table nearby, she spotted a familiar looking book. Curiously, she reached over and picked it up. The jacket was new, with new decoration. Inside, the pages had been mended, and the illuminations had been freshened up with new dyes and paints. She gasped as she recognised her mother's old book of hours.

When the servant arrived with her wine, she snapped the old book closed and said to the boy:

"Summon the duke for me, and fetch another glass of wine."

While she waited for Arthur to arrive, she carried on leafing through the pages of the book, amazed at the work that he had done. He seemed to have been making an effort in more ways than one, for his mistress had only just been sent packing barely a day ago. But otherwise, things had been as tense as ever between them.

But, when Arthur appeared in the solar not twenty minutes later, he was looking relaxed, even happy.

"You like it then?" he asked, nodding towards the book.

"It is beautiful," she said as he sat opposite her with a glass of wine in his hands. "I just wanted to thank you."

Arthur paused for a moment while he took a long sip of his wine.

"I wanted to make it better for you," he eventually said. "I want to make a lot of things better for you."

Catherine knew he was referring to more than just a battered old book. She looked across the small space that divided them, into his bright blue eyes. He looked back at her, that same expression in his face as when they were teenagers, newly married.

"Perhaps," she replied evasively.

They lapsed into another silence as they both turned to look at the flames. After a few moments, however, Arthur had made up his mind.

"We should talk now," he said, turning his full attention back to Catherine. "Because if we carry on tiptoeing around each other like this, one of us will eventually go mad, and knowing fate the way that I do, it will probably be poor Mary."

The effect on Mary had been devastating. Where once she was a bright, precocious child; she was now quiet, and slowly withdrawing into herself, like a tortoise into its hard protective shell.

Catherine sighed deeply, and rose from her chair. "If you want to talk; then so do I, and I am going first."

Arthur followed her progress as she began walking the length of the chamber, as though she were warming up sprint. He gestured for her to continue.

"First of all," she stated. "You cannot simply dance back into my life as though the last thirty years simply haven't happened. I married your brother, because I love him. I was Queen of England, because that is what I was born to do. I had a life, I had duties, responsibilities and a role to play. I grew up, got older, and changed. We, neither of us, are the same people that we were all those years ago. So what can we do?"

"Start all over again," Arthur suggested. "It is possible-"

"And your mistress?" Catherine interjected. "How would she feel about that?"

"She's not my mistress, Cate," he retorted.

"You sound like Henry!"

"What do you want me to say?" he asked desperately. "For better or for worse, we're in this together, and we need to make a go of things."

Catherine ceased pacing and dropped back into her chair. She kneaded at a knot of tension in her temples as she tried to collect her thoughts and feelings. There were many things in life that she had been rigorously trained to deal with, but husbands resurfacing from the dead was not among them. The emotional fall out, the implications, ramifications, and complications were all new to her, and none of that Courtly training had prepared her for it. They were the rules that had governed her life, and without them she felt as though a rug had been violently pulled from under her feet. She was flailing; grasping at thin air and headed for a fall.

"Don't you understand?" she asked. Desperate for a way to show him what this had done to her. "Can't you see the consequences?"

"All around me," he replied. "I know what I have done, and there is nothing I can do to make amends. Nothing; except try. And right now; I am trying."

"What's the use," Catherine sighed as she sat back in her chair. Because, despite it all, she found that she was not angry with him any more. She was just confused, and hurt. "I mean, there is no point getting stuck on the recriminations. Just tell me why you did this? Where have you been?"

Out of everyone, she had been the only one to ask him why he had done it. "I had to," he said. Catherine pulled a face that made him hastily add: "I did, Cate. I couldn't have done it. I was breaking down, and I couldn't cope. I would have been a disaster."

"How do you know when you never even tried?"

"Being heir made me want to die," he said, leaning forwards in his seat. "Its hard to explain, but I wanted to be dead, Cate. If my plan hadn't have worked, I don't know what I would have done."

Catherine turned her face away, and asked: "Was it me?"

"No," he answered emphatically. "I loved you, and that is not a word of a lie. But I couldn't take you with me, you were meant to be Queen. I thought my father would marry you off to Harry the second I was gone from the picture."

The story of the dowry row had spread all over England, even as it was happening. Catherine had been brought to her knees by the incident, and impoverished to boot.

"You got that wrong!" she laughed.

"I got a lot of things wrong."

Catherine did not disagree with him. She did have to admit to herself that he was still a handsome man, though. She had noticed that Henry was becoming portly now. But Arthur was still lean, his skin almost tanned from a life spent largely outdoors as he travelled from town to town, and across the seas to Europe. His hair was dark and full, where Henry had begun to recede. Arthur looked like his father, whereas Henry took after their mother's side of the family.

She breathed in deep, and exhaled in a sigh. She had to let it go. She wanted to let it go. She would never reclaim what she once had, but it was better than being left with nothing.

"Was there ever anyone else?" she asked, wondering if she really wanted the answer.

"Nothing serious," he replied truthfully. "I wasn't a monk. But there was nothing that ever lead to anything."

"I suppose you were always on the move?"

"Exactly," he confirmed. "Wherever the work was, I went."

Deep inside, Catherine always wondered what that life would be like. All she ever knew was the regimented life of royal duty, court and responsibility. It was her world, and it was structured like a bridge of iron. Inflexible. She was almost angry with him for not following his heart and asking her to join him. Of all the questions she suddenly yearned to ask him, her next question flew off her lips before she even realised that it was there.

"It must have been a lonely life?"

"Very," he answered.

A sadness clouded his expression as he spoke. For a fleeting moment, she was reminded of that lost little boy he had once been, and an instinct kicked in. She wanted him. She wanted to be the one to console him, and hold him when he awoke in the middle of the night. She got back to her feet again, and held her hand out to him.

"Come to bed," she said. "Keep your hands to yourself, mind you," she warned, but jokingly.

Arthur smiled. It was the first time she had seen him smile properly since they arrived at The More. He got to his feet, and took her hand in his. They left their half empty wine glasses on the table, and left the solar hand in hand as they repaired towards their privy chambers. On the way there, Catherine stopped him. She looked up at him.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "But, while we were refusing to talk, I took the liberty of inviting some good friends over to stay."

"Of course I do not mind," he replied, laughing. "Why would I mind?"

"Well, Henry wouldn't have liked it," she replied with a smile. She was clearly relieved that Arthur had taken the news well. "Anyway, you will like them. It is your cousin, Henry Courtenay, and his wife, Gertrude Blount. You'll like them, I know you will."

Catherine had continued walking as she told him the names of their guests, and he was grateful for it. She didn't see him paling, and his body stiffening as it absorbed the impact. But, he couldn't bring himself to spoil her mood by telling her that they had already met. She was making an effort, and he wanted to return the favour. He kept his mouth shut with a smile, and followed her into the bedroom.


	12. Bedroom Politics

**Author's Note:** As always, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your comments are greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this story. Please read and review, thank you!

**In reply to "anon":** I'm pleased that you're enjoying the Catherine and Arthur development. However, I must devote time to Anne and Henry, as they're just as important to my extended plot as Catherine and Arthur are. I don't want to give it all away, but this story would not work without them.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: Bedroom Politics.<strong>

It was bound to happen sooner or later. At least, that's what Arthur thought as he woke up slowly, and found himself in the arms of Catherine, the wife from whom he had become estranged. It was a natural progression. The bedroom was the only place where they could have the privacy and the uninterrupted time to deal with their awkward history. For the first few nights, they had lain awake, side by side as he told her everything that had happened during his absence. Then, she had told him everything that had happened to her. They had consoled each other as they reached the parts in their stories that were emotionally difficult. Each painful memory was accompanied by a caress for comfort, or a whispered compliment. The caresses turned to lingering embraces, the sweet whispers turned to kisses, the kisses evolved into sex. The politics of the bedroom had won the day.

So it was that Arthur, teased from his sleep by the sunlight filtering through his eyelids, now awoke in a tangle of bedsheets. Catherine slept on at his side, her lips parted slightly as she did so. The only sound was that of her soft breathing. He rolled away from the light spilling through the windows, and turned to look at her properly. He wondered how it happened, despite his logical progression theory. Only a week ago, there was still a tense silence between them. Now they were sleeping together. His heartbeat skipped as he told himself she was probably regretting it already. They had drank some strong wine, but he was sure they were both sober and in command of their senses.

But, Arthur's concerns melted away as Catherine's eyelashes fluttered, and she too awoke. She looked at him, and a smile spread slowly across her lips.

"Good morning," she said in a voice thick with sleep.

Arthur returned her smile. "Good morning," he replied.

The way she made him feel now; it made him want to stay like that for ever. But, any day hence, and the delightful Exeters were due to arrive. Arthur suppressed a groan, and kissed his wife good morning.

* * *

><p>King Henry was in a fluster. He had checked Queen Anne's confinement chambers at Greenwich over and over. He and Anne had decided on Greenwich soon after the pregnancy had been confirmed. It was where he himself had been born, and he wanted his son to be born there, too. His new Lord Chancellor, Thomas More, was at his elbow with a long sheet of paper, ticking off a list of items that were in the chambers.<p>

The bed. The great cradle for the child. The names of the ladies, midwives, physicians and nurses who would be attending the Queen during her confinement and lying in. Every bed sheet, towel, cloth, and binding cloth had listed, and checked. Nothing had been left to chance, and everything was set to go for the great occasion. After the third check, Henry turned to Sir Thomas.

"This is it," he said, beaming brightly. "The Queen will enter at six o'clock this evening. Make sure her staff are here to greet her when she arrives. Make sure they're all clean, and in new uniforms. Pay for new clothes out of my Privy Purse if needs be."

"Yes, Your Majesty," replied More with a perfunctory bow as he backed out of the chamber to do the King's bidding.

Henry watched the man leave, before turning to enter the Queen's chambers through the connecting door, where she was waiting with her ladies. She looked up at him and smiled brightly.

"Your Majesty," she greeted him formally. "I trust everything is well?"

He still looked flushed, but they had been running around all day. Only Anne had had the leisure to lay back in her chambers, and wait for everything to be done for her. But, she was vast now. Her ankles were swollen, her back ached, and she could barely stand unaided. Mary Boleyn was tasked with keeping Anne's feet elevated, while the other ladies, Jane Seymour, Mary Howard, and Jane Parker chief among them, helped prepare the birthing chamber.

Henry came over to her, and kissed her forehead before taking the seat opposite her. He turned to Lady Mary Howard, and bid her send for the musicians. He had recently employed a musician he'd found in Cardinal Wolsey's choir. His name was Mark Smeaton, and Henry was keen to show him off to Anne.

"Everything is fine," he assured her. "But, I have one more treat for you before we're parted. This musician I have sent for. He is the best in the realm, and I want to offer him our patronage."

Anne perked up immediately. "Thank you, Henry," she said.

"Are you still nervous?" he asked.

Thoughts of death had been haunting Anne for weeks, now. Even supplanting her fear of Henry's mistresses. Mary had assured her that all women felt the same as she, but it did not exactly help. Knowing that all women felt this way did not improve her chances of survival. All she could think was that she was destined to become another martyr to motherhood.

"I am fine now," she replied, masking her fears. The last thing she needed was Henry worrying as well. "All I want is to present you with your son."

The musician arrived, and Anne turned to greet him. How bowed low and elegantly, but Anne could see the nervous terror in his eyes. His body was trembling with nerves. Henry, however, got up and patted him on the back, and immediately set the boy at ease.

"Master Smeaton," Henry said. "I have just been telling the Queen all about you."

Smeaton looked from Henry to Anne, and his breath caught in his throat all over again. He barely knew what to say.

"Don't be nervous, Master Smeaton," she smiled, and struggled to her feet. "Please, play your lute for us while the King and I dine. You will not be so nervous if we are distracted."

"Thank you, Your Majesties," he replied. "This opportunity means a lot to me."

Smeaton's accent was foreign, but Anne could place it the moment she heard it. He was a Fleming, and she'd met many at the court of Margaret of Austria. He was tall, and lean. His hair wiry, and his eyes large and brown. But the music, as he began to play as she and Henry sat down to dine, was perfect. All the ladies were enraptured by the music the boy played. Anne could almost feel herself nodding off to sleep to it.

But, as the meal ended, Henry set down his knife and fork.

"I was thinking he could tutor our son in music," he said. "He can be dancing master, too."

Anne agreed readily. "What say you, Master Smeaton?"

Smeaton looked as though he'd been hit with a lance pole, as he looked agape at everyone in the room in turn.

"I – I would be honoured!" he stammered. With eyes as wide as saucers, he bowed low again, before being ushered from the chamber with Henry's profuse thanks ringing in his ears.

Henry and Anne had barely minutes left together before she would be escorted into her confinement chamber. Even as they spoke, the bed was being blessed by the Bishops. So, they stole their final moments, and held each other close while the ladies went off to make the final preparations. They kissed each other, and stroked each other's faces. God alone knew when they would see one another again.

"Stay strong, my love," he whispered in her ear. "Stay strong, and you will be delivered before you know it."

She wished that she could believe him. But now that the moment had come, she was more afraid of the child bed fever than ever. She tried to go back to fretting over Henry taking a mistress, but now everything paled into insignificance when compared to the ordeal that awaited her behind the doors of the chambers. Her lower lip trembled as she spoke: "Pray for me."

"Always," replied Henry, clasping her hands to his heart. "The whole of England prays for you and our son."

Anne swallowed at the emotions that choked her, and gave a firm nod of her head as she steeled herself. She had let her fears show once, and now she was expunged of them. It was time to focus, and do her duty. With one final kiss, one final embrace, she turned away from him, and bid her newly returned ladies to take her inside the confinement chamber. With her emotions barely under control, she couldn't bring herself to look over her shoulder at Henry for one final time.

* * *

><p>Inside the Confinement chamber, the windows were shuttered to block out the daylight. But Anne knew it was already dark, anyway. The fire blazed in the hearth, and the heat would soon become oppressive. As soon as she settled in the bed, she lay awake and restless. Mary continued to sit and soothe her, but she needed another distraction. She gestured to another of her ladies, Jane Seymour. She needed spiritual solace.<p>

"Lady Jane, please read to us from the Bible," she said.

Jane put down the needlework in her hands, and looked at Anne stunned and faintly embarrassed.

"Your Majesty," she stammered. "My Latin is not good."

Anne smiled. "Jane, the Bible is English," she informed her. "You may read the word of God for yourself, and to all of us, now."

A look of puzzlement crossed the girl's face, followed by surprise. She hesitated for a moment, before reaching out to Anne's bible, and opening it on her lap. She had been a lady in waiting to Catherine, the duchess of Clarence. Everyone suspected that her loyalties still lay with Catherine, but Anne had ideas about winning her over slowly. As the girl began to read, falteringly at first, Anne lay back and closed her eyes. Her confinement was mandatory, but she intended to make the best of it.

* * *

><p>Arthur knew exactly how Mary felt on such occasions. He couldn't begin to even estimate the number of times he had been stuffed into what his Governess deemed were his 'best' clothes, and then put on display before visitors to his father's court. He, his brother and sisters would be lined up behind their mother, all itching and scratching at the stiff clothes, while the visitors patted their cheeks and complimented their manners and poise, as though they were prize pets. So much as a toe out of line, and a stinging rebuke from any one of their governesses, nurses, and nannies would be forthcoming later on, as they were put to bed.<p>

Now, Mary, and indeed the entire household, were lined up in the great hall of the More, waiting for the arrival of the household of the Marquis of Exeter. But, his niece shot him a disgusted look as he linked his arm through her mother's. Catherine didn't see her, though. She kept her smile firmly in place as one of her women, Elizabeth Darrell, straightened out her gown of burgundy velvet and silk.

"This is going to be horrendous," whined Arthur into Catherine's ear.

Catherine sighed. "He is your cousin!"

It had been over a month since Ursula had left The More, and Arthur had not heard from her. He didn't even know if she had made it into the Exeter's household. But, he was about to find out. She would be travelling with them if she had been successful. Finally, as the tocsin chimed the hour, there was a fanfare from outside as the guests arrived.

The sound of horses hooves clattering over the cobblestones thundered out as the whole retinue spilled into the forecourt. Catherine turned to Mary, and bid her stay where she was while she and Arthur went outside to welcome their guests. Once they were outside, Arthur shivered against the cold winter weather, and looked warily out over the courtyard.

The retinue of the Exeters was vast. They had men at arms, retainers, guides, and ladies for the Marquess. All of them would have to be lodged at the More throughout the duration of their stay, and Arthur would have to write to his brother to explain precisely why he'd managed to rack up an enormous bill. To his small relief, however, it seemed the Courtenay's had left their carriages to go hunting during their travels. Servants in Exeter livery began to unload fresh animal carcasses from the back of one or two carriages that had accompanied the Henry and Gertrude.

Finally, they appeared. Gertrude was helped down from her carriage by a servant in a mud spattered livery. Delicately, she placed one dainty, silk slippered, foot on to a dry looking stone. As she found her feet after the long journey, she looked all about her, until her eye alighted on Catherine. Immediately, her face split into a wide smile.

"Cate!" she greeted Catherine, and rushed over with her arms open to embrace her former mistress. "How lovely to see you again, Cate."

"Gertrude, you have been missed," replied Catherine, returning the other woman's warm hug.

Arthur watched the scene unfold before him, his heart growing heavier as Ursula failed to materialise. He had counted on her getting a place in the Courtenay household. He was about to step forwards when someone clapped him firmly on the back. He whirled around and found himself face to face with another man. About six foot in height, he had that unmistakable Plantagenet look about him. Henry Courtenay obviously took after his mother, Catherine of York. But, unlike King Henry, he was still lean, and youthful looking.

"Your Grace," Henry greeted his cousin. "Nice to meet you at last. The wife was telling me about the Coronation."

"Oh!" replied Arthur, stunned for a moment. His and Gertrude's meeting at the Coronation was hardly a pleasant memory. "Good."

"Ah, so the two of you have already met," said Gertrude.

Arthur turned to see she and Catherine walking towards them, both clearly delighted to be back in each other's company. With a sinking heart, Arthur realised that he was going to have to make a clear effort to forget his last meeting with Gertrude, and make this bearable for her sake.

"Yes, we were just becoming acquainted," Henry replied as he leaned over to kiss Gertrude's cheek. He then turned to Arthur. "May we present our son, Edward, your grace?"

At that moment, the door to another carriage opened, and a small boy of about seven years old stepped down with the help of Ursula Pole. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief at seeing her there among the Exeter household. She, however, looked embarrassed at being back. She led her new charge over to them, and dipped into a curtsey. Edward Courtenay bowed, making the women coo over him indulgently.

"Welcome to the More," said Arthur. "To all three of you. Please, come inside. Dinner has been served, and Lady Mary is waiting."

The four of them made their way inside, the two women chatting excitedly as the two men exchanged stiff pleasantries. Lady Mary dipped into a curtsey as the adults entered.

"My Lord and Lady of Exeter," she greeted them smiling. "My Lady mother."

She stepped forwards and kissed them each on the cheek, and then turned her back on Arthur, without so much as a word to him. The other adults looked faintly embarrassed by the public snub, and Catherine shot him an apologetic look. Arthur, however, chose to ignore it. To react would be to give the girl the reaction she craved, and he found himself silently praying that the Exeters would be too proper to make any remark.

"Well, that was nice!" exclaimed the Marquis, a little over-brightly.

"Exactly, let's sit and eat," suggested Catherine.

Gertrude was quick to do her bit to cover the faux-pas. "Doesn't it all look lovely, Harry?"

Arthur left the forced conversation and instructed the servants to show the guests to their seat. Mary, as though to compound her earlier behaviour, had already sat down and poured herself a glass of wine. He looked at her, and wondered if (by the end of the night) she would be running through the streets of the local village with her skirts over her head, and singing a bawdy ballad at the top of her voice.

Once they were all seated, and the platters of food were laid out, the conversation eased along nicely, despite Mary's efforts.

"My Lady, are you not at Court?" asked Arthur. "I hear the Queen is in her confinement, now?"

"Heavens no," replied Gertrude as she nodded to a servant to refill her glass. "I managed to get myself out of it. Poor Jane Seymour is stuck there, though."

"What surprises me," chipped in Henry. "Is that the Queen's sister is always at her side. Wasn't she having relations with his majesty at some point?"

Catherine blanched at the memory. "Oh yes, for a long time," she answered. "It surprises me, too. My guess is, Anne feels safer with ex-mistresses. She knows Henry's ways. Once he is done with a girl, she is gone for good."

"Is she really that insecure?" asked Arthur, looking towards Gertrude who seemed to know the Queen better than she knew herself. "She seemed nice those few times I was presented to her."

"She's nice to your face!" Henry snorted before Gertrude could answer.

"I don't know about insecure," said Gertrude. "But she is worried about her support base. She tried to get her brother, George, in as Lord Chancellor, but Henry gave the position to Thomas More."

"Thomas More?" asked Catherine, her eyes wide with surprise. "What is the King doing?"

There was a contemplative silence as they picked at their meals, until Gertrude cleared her throat, and began to explain:

"The King is pushing through these Church reforms, as you know," she said, looking right at Arthur. "But, there has been resistance from some unexpected quarters. The King dissolved upwards of fifty monastic houses, and when he sent his men to shut them down, the local populace started to get restive. Then there was resistance in the Commons. My guess is, Henry is taking well known conservatives, like More, and testing their loyalty by giving them some of Wolsey's old jobs."

"And if they fail the loyalty test?" asked Arthur after a pause. He wasn't sure he even wanted the answer to that question.

"Who knows," said Henry. "But there is more to what my wife said. The King has talked about going the same way as certain German states, and a split with Rome altogether-"

He was cut off by Catherine choking on her mouthful of roast lamb and mint sauce. She covered her mouth, and struggled to regain her breath. Once composed, she gasped: "He wouldn't!"

But, Henry Courtenay was on the Privy Council. He knew everything about the state, and how the state was being run and which direction it was being run in.

"Remember the Priest who performed the Queen's marriage and Coronation?" asked Henry. "His name is Thomas Cranmer, and he is on embassy in Nuremberg. He sends reports to the King every day, bleating about the freedom of the people, the unity and happiness now that they are free from the bonds of Rome."

"And the King believes him?" asked Catherine. She had heard of Cranmer, but it was all high praise despite him being a lapdog of the Boleyn's. However, it was Mary who spoke next.

"If the people are angry about a few dissolved abbeys," she said, twirling her glass around. "How angry would they be about a split from the Papal See?"

Each of the adults exchanged a dark glance. "Let us not go there," said Catherine at length.

They turned back to their meal, and enjoyed the excellent food that the castle chefs had prepared for them. Gertrude, to Arthur's relief, had toned down her polemics against the Queen, and seemed content to assist her young son with cutting his tough beef dinner. Once they had finished, it was late in the evening. They all heartily agreed on a hunt the next day, and pushed back their chairs to retire for the night.

Mary was escorted to her chambers by Lady Salisbury, who had been dining in an ante-chamber with her own daughter, Ursula. Catherine went with Henry and Gertrude, to show them to their chambers; where they would stay for the duration of their visit. Arthur found himself alone, and seized the opportunity to speak with Ursula Pole, still sitting in the ante-chamber where she had taken her meal.

"Your Grace," she said.

She got to her feet, and was about to curtsey before Arthur halted her.

"Just Arthur," he said. "You know me well enough."

She laughed. "Sorry," she said, glancing down at her feet. "Are you happy?"

Arthur was taken aback by the question. "Very," he replied, feeling abashed.

"It's all right," she assured him as they sat before the dying fire of the chamber. It was little more than a cupboard. "I did as you asked. I am little Edward's Governess, now."

"Good, good," replied Arthur. "Have you spoken to them much?"

"Enough," she said. She leaned in closer, and lowered her voice. "They're talking about the resistance to the King's reforms."

Arthur fixed her with an intense look. "In what way?"

"I don't know for sure, yet," she said, lowering her voice even more. "I want to find out more, because even my brothers are involved in it. But don't panic. I will keep you informed."

"Your brothers?"

"Yes," she said. "My brother Reginald is a Cardinal, and he has already written to me saying that his holiness is outraged by what our King is doing to the monasteries, and that everything in England is waxing crooked. But, I don't know how far this will go, and I pray the King backs down."

Arthur listened to what she said, transfixed. "I may be able to speak with the King," he assured her. "I have no idea what he thinks he is playing at, but I can try. Just, keep your eyes and ears ready and open for me."

Ursula gave him a nod, and raised a pained smile as he got up and left. Although the atmosphere between them was relaxed, they were still imagining what could have been between them. But, as Arthur entered the great hall, Catherine swept back down the stairs and embraced him.

"Thank you," she said. "For being so gracious."

She cast a wary look over his shoulder, and into the ante-chamber, where Ursula still sat and waited for her mother to return. Arthur led her away, towards their chamber.

"It's all right," he told her. "Everything will be all right."

* * *

><p>Anne's labour was long, and difficult. For the whole duration of her ordeal, the women seemed to run amok about the chamber. Sheets and cloths were dampened to keep her cool as waves of white hot pain crashed over her, time and time again. She was sick; sick as she tried to bear down on herself to push through the pain. The mess was horrific.<p>

Surely it was not supposed to be like this? Anne thought to herself as she fell back against the pillows, exhausted. Her breath burned in her lungs as she struggled for air. Sweat mingled with cold water ran down her face, blurring her vision and stinging her eyes. She needed her sister.

"Mary!" she cried out, her voice high and wavering as she flailed her arms around, trying to reach for her sister.

"I am here, sister," cried Mary.

Anne twisted her neck around to see into her sister's face. "It's all right, isn't it?" she panted, desperate for reassurance.

"Of course it is," replied Mary, squeezing Anne's hands. "The baby is crowning. Just push!"

She felt another contraction build. It was gathering momentum at the pit of her burning stomach, and about to spread outwards. In readiness, Anne gathered herself and bunched up, ready for the wall of pain, and then it hit. Her scream was so shrill it made the midwife the opposite end of the room jump in fright.

The contraction ebbed, only to be swiftly followed by another that built, and built. Anne thought that her body would simply cave in on itself. The pain choked her, and she couldn't even scream. But, just as she thought she would die, there was a sudden rush as something wet and large slithered from out of her.

She gasped and grunted with relief as all the pain and discomfort suddenly drained away. She collapsed, once again, back against the pillows, as the lest dregs of her strength left her. She felt like a marionette that had had it's strings cut. The women all gathered around the babe, and suddenly, a thin wavering cry filled the air. The child took its first gasp of air, and Anne laughed with relief and joy.

"What is it?" she panted. "Tell me, what is it?"

Mary's brief hesitation gave her away. But, she instantly forced herself to smile and look ecstatically happy.

"Your Majesty has given birth to a healthy baby girl."


	13. Bravest Face

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

I must apologise to Anon, who I mistook for the other Anon who thought this was going to be a revenge against Anne Boleyn story. I'll be covering both couples equally, and (to the best of my ability) fairly.

Also, I can't imagine British history without Elizabeth, so this is an earlier version of her.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen: The Bravest Face.<strong>

The proclamations for the Prince's birth had already been written. However, Thomas Cromwell was a resourceful man, and had left just enough space after the word 'Prince' to squeeze in two letter 'S', and remedy the unfortunate situation. That was the easy part of dealing with the fall out from the birth of a girl. Because once he had amended the proclamations; it was time to inform the King.

He left his chambers, and made the short journey down the connecting gallery, and declared his business to the Chamberlain waiting outside the Presence Chamber door. The men then vanished inside, and left Thomas waiting outside after asking no questions; leaving him as the sole bearer of this bad news. Not even any of the Boleyn's had volunteered to come with him. So Thomas sighed deeply, and paced the floor, frowning at the old rushes that lined the flagstones. All this commotion had left the place untidy.

A few minutes later, and Thomas was in with the King. Henry's night had been a sleepless one. He was huddled by the fire, wrapped up tight in a sable lined gown. His eyes were lined with exhaustion; he was barely awake. But as Cromwell entered, Henry leapt out of the chair as though the chair itself had thrown him out.

"What news?" he asked, not waiting for the usual acts of deference. He could feel the future hanging in the balance of that one moment.

"Your Majesty," said Cromwell with a bow. He continued in tone set with determination: "Her Majesty is delivered of a healthy girl. A Princess of the realm."

For a moment the words did not seem to register. The King's expression froze as he gaped at Cromwell. Then, the briefest flicker of disappointment dulled the sparkle of his bright blue eyes.

"A girl?" he repeated, dumbly. "But how is Anne? I heard that her ordeal was harrowing? Is she well?"

"The Queen is quite well, Your Grace," replied Cromwell. "She is recovering well, and there is no sign of child bed fever."

Some of the tension drained from the King, and his body sagged. Cromwell relaxed, too, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Although clearly disappointed; Henry took the news well. Henry sank back into his seat, and drained a goblet of wine that was at his side. His grooms skulked in shadows, and now that the wait was over, they dared to approach their master again. Cromwell could see his duty was done.

"It's rather late, Your Grace. I shall leave you for now," said Thomas. "Is there anything I can do for tomorrow?"

Henry, still scatter-brained from emotional storm he'd been weathering all night, looked up at Cromwell in a daze.

"Of course, Thomas," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "And thank you. Just inform the Queen's attendants that I will be in first thing."

* * *

><p>Anne called her Elizabeth. Both of her grandmothers were called Elizabeth; it felt right. She was strong; she was healthy. She exercised her tiny lungs with gusto, and thrashed her frail looking arms and legs with surprising vigour. But, she was undeniably female. Anne held the infant in her arms, and looked down at her, expressionless and numb with disappointment. More than once she had to wipe a tear from her eye; usually when she imagined Henry's reaction. All she could do was smile, and show her bravest face.<p>

She wanted to love the child. She did love the child. But she felt as though she had done something wrong, and that she was not entitled to this child. It felt wrong to love someone who she knew everyone else would disapprove of. So Anne clutched the infant Elizabeth close to her chest, and watched the sun rise high in the sky outside her windows. Elizabeth's first ever sunrise, Anne thought to herself.

Just hours later, and there was soft knock at the chamber door, as though the caller was feeling self-conscious about the early morning intrusion. Seconds later, and Jane Seymour eased her way into the chamber. Anne could just see Henry hovering in the outer chamber as Jane opened the door to let herself in.

"His Majesty has come to see you, Your Grace," she explained as she curtseyed deeply to Anne.

Anne's heart skipped a beat in dread. "Thank you, Jane," she said, her voice hoarse from all the screaming the night before.

She scrutinised her husband's face as he entered the chamber. His expression was, however, impassive. He said nothing as he sat on the edge of the bed, and reached out for his daughter. Anne carefully relinquished the child, wishing more than ever that he would just say something; anything. But as Henry gazed down at the baby in his arms, he smiled. His eyes softened, and he kissed the child's forehead.

"Do not be sad," he said as he turned to Anne. "If we can have healthy daughters; healthy sons will follow."

* * *

><p>With Catherine, he had still births, miscarriages, and babies who's lives ebbed away as he held them in his arms. Of course he needed a son, but a daughter as strong and healthy as the one he now held was a damn good start to their family. The gender was almost immaterial, once the news had been absorbed.<p>

Anne looked up him, and she felt as though she had been given the permission she sought to love her own child. And love her she did. She mustered a wan smile.

"A son next time," she said. "I promise."

The Courtenay's were still staying at the More when the messenger from the Palace came. They had all defied the winter weather, and taken to the surrounding park lands for another hunting party when Arthur spotted the messenger as he peered between the bare trees. Fluttering in the strong head wind as he rode frantically up the tracks was the royal standard. Arthur called out to Catherine; the distraction jolted her as she aimed her cross bow at a deer, and sent her shot crashing into a nearby tree trunk.

"Not to worry, Your Grace," laughed Gertrude. "At least it wasn't a person!"

Catherine took the ribbing good naturedly, but as she cantered her horse over to Arthur's side, she glowered at him. She looked almost menacing, and he found himself resisting the urge to back off, as though a lioness was approaching, and not simply Catherine.

"Arthur, you fool," she angrily snapped. "I could have killed somebody!"

He hadn't bothered to look to see what she was doing, true, but he was stung by the public scolding.

"I'm sorry," he replied sheepishly, and putting it down to her change of life. He'd been told before that it made women irrational and aggressive; so made a note to watch his step in future. To change the subject, he waved his arm towards the More. "We have a visitor," he pointed out.

Catherine followed the direction in which he pointed, and the anger drained from her expression. "I am sorry," she said as she turned back to face him. "I don't what's got into me today."

She leaned sideways in the saddle, and managed to plant a kiss on his cheek. Just to the side of them, Lady Mary made an exaggerated retching sound, that made little Edward Courtenay roar with laughter. Arthur looked at Catherine, who affected not have noticed, and his patience snapped. He signalled to the rest of the party to wait behind as he and Catherine rode out to meet the messenger.

"Hang on," he said, as they rode back towards the More. "I get publicly bawled at for one simple mistake, yet your little madam of a daughter mocks us in public and gets away with it?"

"She is just a child," retorted Catherine in a low voice. "She needs time to adapt."

But Arthur had enough of excuses. As soon as they were well out of earshot of the others, he further pressed his case.

"Cate, I am your husband in name, law, and now deed," he explained, discreetly referring to the fact that they were now sharing a bed more often than not, and had been for well over a month. "Don't you think it's time Mary started to show me just a little more respect?"

"You can't just step into Henry's shoes like that," replied Catherine, her face flushed with irritation again. "Her father is the King, Arthur-"

"I know that!" he cut her off. "Don't you agree she ought to behave as though-"

It was Catherine's turn to butt into the argument. "She is practically a Princess, and ranks higher than you, my lord. Don't you think you should make an allowance for that?"

"Princess?" Arthur muttered mutinously under his breath as they dismounted in the court yard; he had hoped the noise would cover it. "She is a bastard!"

But Catherine heard it loud and clear.

"And who's fault it that?" she rounded on him as they got back on their feet.

Arthur instantly regretted what he had said. The horses had been led away by a stable boy who was pretending to be deaf to their argument, and the two of them now faced each other from across a narrow space. Catherine was enraged; Arthur abashed at his loose tongue. He was about to apologise; to ask forgiveness, when a third voice reluctantly interrupted. The two of them had been so immersed in their spat, that they had forgotten the messenger.

"Your Graces," the unfortunate man said, peering nervously from one to the other.

"What?" both Catherine and Arthur barked at the man, and he stepped back as though to run for it.

They were both glaring at him; making him doubly nervous. "A message from the King and Queen," he blurted out. "Her Majesty was delivered of a Princess, Elizabeth, at Greenwich Palace. The King requests the Duke's attendance at Court in two days time."

With that, the man hastily scrambled back into the saddle, but Catherine called out to him, stopping him as he was bent double over the horse's back.

"Wait!" she commanded, stepping forwards. "Did you say the Queen had a girl? A daughter?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Arthur's heart sank at the news. They were all depending on a son for the King, for many and varied reasons. But, he soon became distracted by Catherine, and he watched her reaction carefully.

"Well God help her, then," said Catherine. "Tell her to watch those fresh faced little damsels that surround her, too. Now she's birthed a girl the king will be among them and eating them up like a wolf among lambs!" Catherine turned away from the messenger, and added in a voice barely audible, her eyes clouded by painful memories. "Poor woman."

* * *

><p>Things were nowhere near as bad as Anne thought they would be. The King doted on Elizabeth. Already, although Anne was still being Churched, he had taken the baby and showed her off to the whole Court. He held her up high from his table on the dais, and presented England's new, true, Princess of the blood royal. They all drank a toast to her. A thousand glasses held high in the air, and a thousand voices called out the toast: "to Princess Elizabeth!"<p>

The King's biggest regret was the weather. It was so bad, that the jousts had to be cancelled. But masses were sung, the conduits ran with free wine for the citizens, and the celebrations inside the Palace were at full swing as the fireworks lit up the night sky. The noise, however, was unsettling baby Elizabeth.

Henry cooed softly in her ear as he walked with her back towards the Queen's confinement chambers. Outside, two of the Queen's ladies sat guarding the door. A plain, blonde haired girl who Henry faintly recognised as one of Sir John Seymour's many girls, and Lady Margaret Shelton. Henry carefully placed Elizabeth into Seymour's arms.

"Careful with her," he said. "Take her back to the Queen immediately."

He'd barely looked at the pale girl before turning his full attention to Margaret. He was in such a buoyant mood, that he wanted to share his joy with someone, and the Queen was out of bounds to him for some weeks yet.

"Lady Margaret," he said. "Why are you not at the dance?"

"I am sorry, Your Majesty," Shelton replied, blushing to the roots of her hair at being recognised by the King himself. "But I must attend the Queen."

"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" replied Henry.

Margaret looked back at the King, clearly confused. But Henry glanced around, waiting for the other girl to return. Once she did so, wiping some baby sick off the front of her gown, Henry collared her.

"You'll be all right on your own for a while, won't you dear?" he said.

Jane Seymour looked up, her gaze flickering from Henry to Margaret, who was still blushing coyly. But before she could answer, Henry had grabbed Margaret's wrist and started steering her back towards the great hall for a dance. The sound of her uncontrollable giggles receding as they vanished among the crowds.

* * *

><p>It was Anne who rocked Elizabeth to sleep that night. She dismissed the woman who Henry had hired to do the job for her; just this once, she wanted to be the one who nursed her baby. As Elizabeth's eyelids grey heavy, and drooped as she drifted off, Anne's heart melted. She had to resist the compulsion to pick her back up again, and cuddle her. Instead, she contented herself to singing a soft lullaby.<p>

Only once Elizabeth was sound asleep did she permit Mary to grant admission to their brother, George. She shrugged another robe around her shoulders, and sat at the small table in her room, with a fresh wine for them to share.

"Your Majesty," George greeted her formally. It was a change in her siblings that Anne could not quite get used to,

"Just sister!" she reminded him firmly, but with a smile of resignation.

George grinned. "Sister," he repeated as he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. Once Mary and George had exchanged a kiss and sat down, it was time to talk business.

"We have a Christening to plan," Anne stated as Lady Mary Howard poured wine for them all. "There are a number of people I think should sponsor Elizabeth. But, I want to your suggestions, George."

But George was nervously glancing over his shoulder, and leaning to each side to peer into the ante-chambers. Mary sighed deeply as she realised what he was doing.

"You can relax, George," said Mary. "She isn't here ."

She exchanged a look with Anne, and mouthed the word "Jane" to her. Anne rolled her eyes, and George pulled himself together and shot them both an apologetic look.

"You know what she's like!" he protested, trying to look innocent. "Anyway, er, what were you saying again, Anne?"

Anne let her face drop into the palm of her hand. "Elizabeth's Godparents," she said in exasperation. "Who should we have as Godparents for the Princess?"

"Ah yes," he replied. "If you're thinking tactically, and you want possible dissenters to show their open support publicly for the Princess, then the King's brother should be first among them. Then there's the King's cousins: Henry Courtenay, Henry Pole, and Pole's mother, Lady Salisbury."

"Then there's Gertrude Blount, Courtenay's wife," said Mary. "I know her from serving Catherine. She is trouble, so make sure she is obligated to buy something very nice for the Princess."

"If we can track them down," said Anne. "We sent messengers down to the Exeters, but there was no sign of them."

George's expression darkened in concern. "They better not be up to anything," he remarked.

"No, the King's men are keeping an eye on them. They'll turn up sooner or later."

"The Exeters are rolling in money, so it's not like its a burden to them," remarked George with a dry laugh. "So that is who you must have as a God parent simply to get loyalty from them. Now, who do you want as a God parent?"

"Thomas Cranmer," Anne answered straight away. "And also Lady Katherine Champernowne."

George fixed her with a curiously amused look. "Is this a little Protestant Princess, sister?"

Anne smiled knowingly. "Father tells me that Cranmer is a married man, now," she said. "He heard it from Cranmer's friend, Cromwell."

Mary looked scandalised. "Who?"

"Margaret Osiander," George answered. "Her uncle is a close friend of Brother Luther himself."

"I see his embassy went well, then?" laughed Mary.

Anne leaned in closer to them both. "Archbishop Warham is dying," she spoke low. "I think I know who the next Archbishop of Canterbury will be. But if Cranmer does get the job; we must exercise caution. The King moves ever closer to reform, and the true faith. But married clergy are still anathema to him."

"If only we, father and Cromwell know, it must stay that way at all costs," said George. "They're on their way home now, and we must find a way for Mrs. Cranmer to get around in secrecy."

There was silence as they all lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

"He could always put her in a box," said Mary lightly. But the other two looked at her seriously. Hastily, she added: "I was jesting!"

"No, it could work," said George. "I mean, its not comfortable, but it will spare her Thomas More's flames."

With the matter settled, they turned their attention to lighter matters. Every so often, Anne glanced over at the great cradle where Princess Elizabeth slept on, oblivious to the great changes the adults around her preparing to make. As she looked, she felt her resolve deepen, and entrench. Together, they would build a whole new world for her to grow up in. For Elizabeth's sake, it was all worthwhile.

* * *

><p>Arthur eased the bedroom door shut, careful not to wake Catherine. But, she was not asleep. She sat up in bed, and pulled back the sheets so he could climb in as soon as he was ready. Through the light of the fire, she watched him undress in silence, and appraised his lean figure. Arthur, however, felt himself to still be in disgrace after that day's argument. He wanted to say something, but once again, as with all these little knots of tension in their lives; he found himself at a loss for how to excuse himself.<p>

As he slid between the crisp linen sheets, however, Catherine caught him in her arms, and kissed him. He smiled with relief, and let himself rest against her.

"I didn't mean to be so bad tempered," she whispered in his ear. "Its just …" her words faltered, but Arthur silenced her with another kiss as she was about try and explain again.

"Its all right," he assured her. "You had every right to be angry with me. Especially after what I said about Mary."

Catherine wasn't disagreeing with him on that score. But now she knew that Mary's behaviour was upsetting him; regardless of how much he pretended otherwise.

"I will talk to her," she promised him. "It will be best to do while you're back at Court for the Christening. She will be more inclined to listen."

They both settled down to get some sleep. Neither were in the mood for anything else that night. They were exhausted from running around the park lands, and had sat late into the night with Henry and Gertrude, speculating about the new Princess. Catherine had spent the night mostly with Mary, consoling her over the reaffirmed lowering of her status. In some ways, it would have been better if the child was a Prince. A new Princess made it seem as though she had simply been exchanged for a newer model.

But as Arthur lay there with his arms wrapped around Catherine, sleep remained stubbornly absent. Catherine, too, seemed restless. After a few more minutes, he gave up.

"What you said earlier," he said quietly. "About Henry losing interest in Anne. Do you mean it?"

"I know him," she replied, turning over so they were face to face in the semi-darkness. "I can guarantee it."

Arthur frowned. "But, he gave you many children," he stated quizzically.

"Oh, he'll do that," she answered. "He will always do his duty. But that is what it will be now. His duty. Whereas that poor, silly girl probably still thinks it will be all passion."

Arthur said nothing. Catherine knew better than anyone, the machinations of Henry's mind. Despite the gravity of their tone, and despite their exhaustion, they began to kiss and caress each other. More for comfort than for anything. Arthur had banked on a Prince merely to take the heat off himself. The birth of a Princess meant he was still firmly on the hook, and still in the glare of potential king makers. It was in Catherine's mind, too, as she eased herself on top of him and they began to make love together. God knew, they both needed each other's reassurance, now.


	14. The Christening

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. Usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen: Christening.<strong>

Arthur watched as the Princess was plunged into the warmed holy water by the newly returned Archbishop of Canterbury. A gesture to which Elizabeth responded with a shrill shriek that echoed around the small chapel. At his side, King Henry looked on with pride as his new daughter was initiated into the flock of Christ. The sermon, he noted, read out in English, as well as the usual Latin.

Once that was over, it was time to withdraw to the Great Hall of Greenwich Palace for the feast that had been planned months in advance. Earlier, Arthur had been the first to present the infant Princess with a rich gift of a jewelled standing cup of gold. Behind him, the Courtenay's, Pole's, and other noble families had followed suit. Silver basins, gold plate, and a variety of salt cellars, bowls, and other items for which a newborn would have absolutely no use whatsoever, were all laid at the great cradle of England's latest Princess.

Once they were seated, in order of rank, Arthur found himself once more in the company of his sisters, and the duke of Suffolk. Their chatter drifted over his head as he ate ravenously after having been on his feet all day, performing ceremonies at the Christening. As he set down his knife, to pick up his glass of wine, Charles' voice boomed over the buzz of chatter, straight into his ear.

"No sign of the Duchess, then?"

"Charles!" gasped Mary, shooting her husband a reproving look from across the table. "Of course Catherine is not here."

"It's all right, Mary," replied Arthur, once the ringing in his ear had stopped. "She has been unwell, and couldn't make the journey, anyway."

"Don't blame her!" snorted Charles. "I would've been ill myself, but for the wife and the King."

"No, she really is sick," Arthur hastily added. "She's not faking it; not held a morsel down for days now."

Finally, however, Margaret stepped in. "I really don't think Catherine was ever expected to be here, Charles," she explained gently. "Not even herself would have the front to command her predecessor's presence here."

Charles seemed satisfied at the explanation, and after giving Mary a wink, he turned back to Arthur. "So, you and the Pole girl got on well, then?"

Arthur's heart gave a painful jolt, and Mary gasped again. Her face flushed red as Charles made a magnificent display of tactlessness for the second time running.

"Actually, Your Grace," stated Arthur. "The Duchess and I are reconciled. Out of respect for her feelings I sent Lady Ursula to the home of our friends, the Exeters."

Mary and Margaret exchanged a knowing glance. Arthur watched them, wondering what secrets and rumours they had telepathically transported into each other's heads through that look. Arthur always marvelled at how women could communicate with each other in complete silence. A tilt of the head, a secret smile, or a curl of the lip was all it often took. He was about to ask about it, when Margaret turned back to him and spoke as if she were speaking for both herself and for Mary.

"Look," she said, pointing her knife at him. "If you don't mind, I think I'll come back to the More with you when you return. It's time Catherine and I patched up our differences."

"You'll put that knife down before you come?" he asked, eyes fixed on the tip with still dripped with sauce.

Margaret lowered her knife, and tried to look innocent. Nobody was fooled. "I think it'll be good for us all!" she exclaimed.

"I agree," said Mary brightly, beaming around at Charles and then Arthur. "What say you husband, we can join them at the More? We must see to Frances and Henry first, of course."

Charles ceased jabbing at a mystery chunk of meat that was on his plate and looked back at the women as though he'd not heard a word of it.

"Oh yes," he blindly agreed. "So long as you're happy, my darling."

Mary rolled her eyes, but the smile that lit up her face betrayed the deep affection that she held for her husband.

"I was also thinking," said Margaret thoughtfully. "That perhaps the King and Queen, with the new Princess, could come and visit us there? And the Duke of Richmond."

The table lapsed into silence; all of them thinking the same thing. The Queen, and Catherine, in the same house.

"Well, that's a bit much for one house," said Charles in an undertone.

"So you are listening?" laughed Mary, trying to dispel some of the tension that had suddenly developed.

"Of course I am listening!" Charles retorted with a playful wink. "I'd love to see Catherine again, but as for Henry and Anne..."

"Well, I am going to ask anyway," stated Margaret resolutely. "Even if it is the last thing I ever do; this family will unite."

Arthur was unaware of the family being divided, but he didn't have long to ponder Margaret's fears. Just as he was about to finish his meal, a servant came down from the top table, where the King was seated beside the Archbishop of Canterbury. He came to a halt at Arthur's side, and whispered quietly in Arthur's ear so that only he could hear, before melting back into the crowd.

Suddenly nervous, Arthur quietly replaced his knife and fork, and took a sip of wine to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

"The King requests my presence," he said, acknowledging the questioning glances of his siblings.

They all turned in their seats and craned their necks to see Henry, still whispering in the ear of the archbishop. Arthur pushed back his chair, and bowed to the women as he excused himself. As he made his way, like a naughty child summoned to the front of the classroom, to the King's side, the eyes of various guests still followed him. They had never quite gotten over his sudden reappearance, and their unwanted attention made him flush with embarrassment. It made his journey to the dais seem twice as long as normal.

"Your Majesty," he greeted the King and dipped into a low bow.

"Arthur," replied Henry, beaming brightly as he raised his brother again. "Please, come and sit with me. It's lonely at these grand occasions without the Queen at my side."

Arthur decided that it was prudent to refrain from repeating the rumours he'd heard concerning one Madge Sheldon, and simply did as he was told.

"Forgive the Duchess not accompanying me," he said. "She has been unwell lately."

Henry waved his concerns away. "Really, Arthur, there's no need for that. No one expected her here, and it won't be held against her."

"It's not an excuse, by the way," he felt keen to point out at every opportunity. "She really is sick."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" replied Henry, his features darkening into a frown. "Anyway, Arthur, I want you to meet Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. I think it's time you both got to know each other a little better."

Cranmer was still a young man, but pleasant and friendly. He smiled readily, and stretched out his hand to Arthur. Soon, the conversation was centred around Church reforms. Corrupt abbeys, pregnant abbesses, and fornicating priests seemed to occupy much of Cranmer's spare time. Arthur did listen, but at same time he knew he was being prepped for something. He just wasn't clear on what.

* * *

><p>Anne shuffled the cards in her hand again, but her mind was elsewhere. Just beyond the door of her chamber, her daughter had been christened. She herself, still being Churched, had been absent from the ceremony. But now, Elizabeth lay fast asleep in her cradle that was being gently rocked by the woman hired especially for the task. But still her mind wandered over what was happening at the feast in her absence. It felt like an eternity since she was fully a part of life at Court.<p>

"Who is the King in there with, do you think?" she asked Mary as she began to deal out the cards at last.

"Lady Howard has just returned, and she said that the King was talking to his brother," replied Mary with a smile. "You needn't worry, sister."

"Really?" asked Anne, looking up from her hand. "I hear that Arthur is getting very friendly with the Exeters and the Poles."

"Haven't you dealt me in?"

It was George. He eased himself around the door, flushed in the face from the wine he'd consumed at the Christening party. Anne groaned and took back the cards she'd dealt out, and prepared to do it all over again. George, meanwhile, pushed a gift over to Anne.

"For you," he said with a smile. "I translated it myself, and it's dedicated to you."

Anne placed the cards back down, and gave them up as a bad job. Instead, she turned her attention to the small book that George had given to her. Psalms. "Thank you, George," she beamed, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "It's perfect."

"Sister, don't worry about Arthur," said George, having picked up a little of the conversation he'd walked in on. "Cranmer is working on him, and I'm sure we'll get his support for the reformation soon."

"He won't have any choice," Mary chipped in. "But still, it would be nice if he volunteered his support, rather than having it brow beaten out of him."

There was a companionable silence in the room while Lady Jane Seymour poured wine for Anne and her siblings. Mary leaned across the table, to peer into the Princess's cradle, but Elizabeth slept on. Anne, too, turned to look at her. She was barely out of the womb, but already she had a match in mind for her; that would wait, though. She was well aware that she still had problems; obstacles that needed circumventing.

"The word is that Catherine is sick," said George, giving Anne a knowing look.

"Diplomatically ill for the Christening, George," corrected Anne. "That's not a proper sickness."

"No, I mean really sick," insisted George. "One of my men overheard Arthur telling the duke of Suffolk. Why would he lie to Charles Brandon?"

"Does it matter if she is?" asked Anne. "She is no threat now."

"We're still better off without her, don't you see?" explained George. "Say the Emperor wanted to back Arthur as King instead of Henry – for she is still his aunt, and he is not happy about her being relegated to a mere Duchess – the incentive for such an interference would be removed."

Anne met his gaze, but made no reply otherwise. Her mind swirled too much, and she hadn't the energy to even think straight. She looked across the table, towards Mary, silently signalling for an intervention.

"Can we change the subject, George," said Mary, tuned to Anne's strained expression. "Let the Queen recoup her strength, get another heir in the belly, and then we can worry about Catherine."

"I'm sorry," George sighed, squeezing Anne's hand. "Mary is right."

"I am not being complacent," Anne assured him. "I know there is a lot to do, but for tonight, it can wait."

But, like Mary, Anne's thoughts had also turned to the next pregnancy. It was why she was still worried about his antics with a mistress. She needed to have him to herself, and while she was cooped up in confinement, it felt like a prison she couldn't break out of.

* * *

><p>When he was young, before he married Catherine, Arthur used to sneak his father's best wine out of the cellar. He would smuggle it outside, and he and Margaret would hide in the back of a disused carriage; sharing the bottle between them as they talked and talked, often long into the night. Their servants helped aided and abetted in their late night escapades, but when they were caught, they always admitted full culpability to spare their staff a terrible punishment. The two of them would be separated and confined to their chambers, and reduced to communicating through smuggled letters via Prince Harry or Princess Mary.<p>

Now, as they sat in the back of a carriage, drinking more strong wine, and heading towards the More with Margaret at his side, Arthur laughed aloud as he recalled those long gone days. The memory was tinged sepia, now. But he now that he was back, the memories came rushing back in floods. Now, so many decades on, he had to admit that it was not all bad.

"Grandmother Beaufort caught us once," he reminisced. "She boxed my ears until I saw stars. But you! You got the: 'there there, has that wicked boy led you astray?' treatment. You had her wrapped around your little finger!"

Margaret's howls of laughter could very well have startled the horses it was so loud. Once she had recovered some of her poise, she tried to reply, once she had flicked the spilt wine from her hand.

"I know!" she choked. "Oh! Poor old Grandmother Beaufort. She really did set herself up as a challenge to us restive children to over-come. It was almost an education in itself."

"I loved her rules," said Arthur. "Something else for us to break."

Margaret snorted with laughter again, trying not to choke on the wine she was gulping down.

"Jesus, we were little terrors back in the day," she said. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. "Those days are gone now, Arthur. And you've been breaking a whole new set of rules without even realising it."

The atmosphere changed in an instant. Arthur sat himself up in his seat, and averted his gaze out of the window. Outside, the open countryside trundled on by. He let his gaze slide out of focus, making it blur into a green and brown haze.

"What have I done, now?" he asked.

"You were over-heard at the Christening talking about Catherine, and your hunting parties with the Exeters," said Margaret, matter-of-factly. "That information has gotten back to the Queen, and courtesy of a friend in the Queen's household, it's gotten back to me."

The wash of good times was swept away by the crashing memories of the darker side of life at Court. Now he clearly remembered why he went to all the trouble of faking his own death.

"This is exactly why I left," he said with a deep sigh of exasperation. "You cannot sneeze in the morning without the whole world finding out that you're dying of flu by lunch time. You cannot move for getting tangled up in webs of intrigues and networks of spies, and spies amongst the spies, who're reporting back to other spies."

He was about to ask who the spy in the Queen's household was, but he thought better of it. Anyone could have over-heard him talking at the party, and he hadn't yet remembered just how dangerous a hunting meeting with friends could be, when you're at Court. The fact was, the Exeters had become his friends while everyone else was too scared to come near him.

"But you yourself have a spy in Ursula Pole," Margaret reminded him pointedly. "That's the implication, anyway."

"She isn't a spy," he corrected her. "She is just watching over some people for me. Some friends."

He could have kicked himself for slipping so easily back into the world of Court politics; it took for him to be on the receiving end of it to realise what he had done.

"Well, whatever she is," replied Margaret. "Just be careful of who's company you keep now. Until the Queen births a son, there could still be trouble ahead for you."

Arthur breathed more easily as the More finally came into view. He watched the vast, fortified walls grow larger, and more stark against the lush rural settings, the nearer they got. As soon as they were through the wrought iron gates, they gathered their belongings, eager to stretch their legs again.

"No more talk of this now, brother," said Margaret with a rueful smile. "I want to enjoy my break from Court."

Arthur looked at her, just as the carriage finally came to a halt. "I couldn't agree more," he said.

As he stepped down from the carriage, he didn't bother waiting around for the footmen to arrive and take their things. It was only now that he was back that he realised how much he had missed Catherine, and was eager to be back in her arms. He had been gone for just three weeks; it felt like an eternity. He linked his arm through Margaret's and walked her towards the doors, excited to be bringing her to his new home. But, as they entered, the grim faced physician left.

"Your Grace," he bowed to Arthur and Margaret as they almost passed him by unnoticed.

The two of them stopped, and the smiles froze on their faces as they realised who he was. It was the King's own physician, Dr William Butts. Arthur's heart hammered, and his mouth ran dry. He didn't summon a physician; Henry must have done it to check up on him. Then that left the question of just how serious the situation was.

"Doctor," stammered Arthur. "Is everything all right?"

He searched the doctor's face for answers, but his expression was unreadable. "Her Grace, the Duchess, is waiting for you in the Solar, Your Grace," Butts finally answered. "You had best speak to her yourself."

"Thank you, doctor," said Margaret, and squeezed Arthur closer to her for comfort. "She's a tough one, brother," she tried to assure him as they passed the physician. "I am sure all is well."

Ignoring the bows of the household staff, Arthur made straight for the solar with Margaret trailing after him. When they entered, they found Catherine at the window, with her back to them. She was perfectly still; as though turned to stone. Arthur paused at the doorway, and nodded to Margaret to remain outside while he went in.

"Cate," he softly said, as he approached her slowly. "Cate, how are you?"

Catherine turned from the window, and Arthur tried not to be shocked by the change in her appearance. Her skin was pale, and her features pinched. Her normally dazzling eyes were lined red; puffy from tears. Arthur began to prepare himself for the worst, and was about to try and coax more information from her, when she spoke.

"Arthur," she said, her voice cracked with emotion. "I am with child."


	15. Being Human

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input is greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading this story, and reviews would be very much appreciated. Thank you again!

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen: Being Human.<strong>

Stunned, and speechless. Arthur's head span like a child's top; the floor swelled beneath his feet like the earth had suddenly pitched to one side and he had to throw out his left hand to clap to the wall to prevent himself from falling over. As he swallowed hard against the bile that was burning its acrid path up his throat, he gaped at Catherine, struggling to find his tongue again.

'I am with child'. The words reverberated around his mind; leaving little after-shocks that jolted his flesh as they went. He realised that he had not taken the news terribly well. Meanwhile, Catherine simply looked back him. Her expression mirrored the stormy confusion of emotions that had been whipped up in his head. When, eventually, he did find his voice again, he found himself asking the simplest, dumbest of questions.

"How?" he asked.

"I wasn't barren," she replied, flatly. "Henry just never lay with me. How could I conceive a child with a husband who would not lie with me?"

"But … I thought …"

What exactly it was he thought, Arthur couldn't articulate. The news had shocked the power of coherent speech right out of him. Catherine, however, seemed a little more in command of herself, as well as second guessing where Arthur was trying to go.

"I thought so, too," she shrugged as she moved to sit by the fire. Numb, Arthur followed her as she continued: "My courses were very far apart, and fading away. But, my fertility was just ending, and not yet dead. Now, it is here. I have done this so many times, but I denied it to myself. Then the moods, the sickness, and the cravings. I should have known!"

Arthur stood behind her chair, and leaned down; wrapping his arms around her from behind. He nuzzled her hair, trying to be soothing and reassuring. Catherine responded by covering his hand with her own, effectively holding him in place. Neither had expected another baby, not after all this time. Henry, Arthur realised, had been a fool to give up trying.

"It will be all right, Cate," he whispered, finally getting some sense of feeling back. "I will make sure it is all right."

Catherine hesitated before answering. "I am forty-four years old, Arthur," she eventually said. "If I don't lose this baby – which, I hope you understand, is almost inevitable – then it will be the death of me."

Arthur disentangled himself, and moved to sit at Catherine's feet, so he could see into her face properly. But, not before he poured them both a stiff drink from the drinks cabinet that was pushed up against the side wall. Once he was comfortable, he tried again to absorb what had just happened. His own mother, thirty-seven at the time of her last pregnancy, reared up in his mind. He tried to fight her down again, but she just kept on coming back.

"We don't know that," he said, resting his head against Catherine's knees. "Nothing is set in stone, Cate."

A thought flickered in the darkest recesses of Arthur's mind; a thought that brought with it the most dreadful pang of shame. But, he had to be honest with himself, even if no one else would. It would be easier, he thought, if the babe did self-abort. If it was a boy, his life would be spent on the run from those who would plot to make him King, whether he wanted it or not. Just the kind of plot that Arthur was vulnerable to at that moment. They could both be executed, just like the young earl of Warwick, their own cousin, who was put to death because of the threat he posed, rather than anything he did. But, on the other hand, if it was a girl, she would be safe. Everyone knows that England cannot be ruled by a girl. She would be free, and happy. Arthur had to admit that if nature granted his child that blessing, she would be deeply loved.

In fact, he had not realised just how much he wanted to be a father until now. He yearned for the child to live, but he yearned for the circumstances to change. In another life, in another time, in another world; this moment could have been perfect. That was a mantra that had become the story of his life. If only white were black, then it would be all right.

* * *

><p>Queen Anne took her first breath of clean fresh air for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and relished it. Her release from the cloying confines of her Churching had given her a new lease of life. She could get back on the litter that the French King had sent to her, she could ride one of her new horses, and finally, she could be back in the arms of the King, her husband.<p>

"Isn't this wonderful, Mary?" she asked her sister as they stepped out into the open air of the Queen's privy gardens. "Fresh air, at last."

Already, the first signs of Spring were showing. Green shoots just peeping through the winter earth in defiance of the lingering frosts. The chill normally would have had her shivering into furs, but now Anne felt invigorated. Then, to make things even better, a familiar male voice boomed across the grounds.

"Anne!"

She whirled around to see Henry bounding over to her like an eager dog. He had left his grooms shivering in a little huddle to come rushing over to her.

"My lord!" she called back, beaming as she opened her arms to receive his embrace. "Free at last, my love."

He wrapped his arms around her, and held her close. She breathed in his familiar scent, that musky scent that followed him everywhere. She felt like she'd come home after a very long, not terribly pleasant, holiday. But, the joy was cut short when he drew away, and planted a kiss on her lips, before informing her that the rigour of state could await her no longer.

"I have a treat for you," he said, rather wryly. "You and I are to receive the new Spanish Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, today."

"Wonderful!" she laughed. "Another of Charles' glove puppets, no doubt."

"Mmm," said Henry, as he nuzzled her hair. "In fact, we must meet him immediately. You don't mind, do you?"

She did not. After several long weeks of confinement, even meetings with Ambassadors were the height of exciting. She soon found herself relishing the prospect of getting her hands dirty in the name of the nation once again.

"It's fine, my lord," she assured him. "Let me gather the ladies, and I'll be straight in with you. See you in there."

Henry snatched one final kiss, and a cheeky grope down the front of her bodices – necessitating a playful slap on the wrist from Anne – and he was gone again. She watched him disappear back in doors with a smile on her face. Even if he had taken a mistress, she thought to herself, she was obviously gone now. He was the same old Henry; loving and attentive as ever.

She looked over her shoulder, just as her ladies began to re-gather at her side. Her sister, as always, followed by Madge Shelton, Mary Howard, Jane Seymour, and finally Jane Boleyn. Once they were all in place, the retinue moved back in doors, to the King's Presence Chamber.

The new Ambassador was a wiry man, of middling height, and a slight build. His large orbs of eyes reflected the light in the room as they peered from the King to the Queen, and back again. He spoke to them in a voice that was so heavily accented, that Anne had to strain her ears to make his words out. Henry, it seemed, had no trouble in understanding, and he grew more stiff, and more rigid the longer the conversation went on.

"The Emperor is disgusted that his Aunt, the Infanta of Isabella and Ferdinand, has been so reduced in status that she is now only a lowly duchess," said Chapuys, taking full advantage of his diplomatic immunity. "Of course he is outraged that she has been set aside. He would rather see Princess Catherine's marriage to Prince Arthur annulled, so that she could be lawfully re-married to the King. She is, after all, royal."

The pointed reference to Anne's common birth was the final straw for Henry. He uncurled his fingers from where they gripped the chair's armrests, and rose slowly to his feet, fixing the Ambassador in a steely glare. In his head, he bellowed at the Ambassador to tell the Emperor to go and fuck himself. But, the words that left his lips were altogether more diplomatic; despite his towering anger.

"Excellency, you're new here, and I'll grant all the license you need, sir," he said through gritted teeth. "But your master's writ doesn't run here, my friend. Nor does the Pope's, nor the French King's, or any other interfering foreign busy body who seeks to jab his fingers into my pies!"

Anne listened to the exchange with an interested that peaked as the King categorically stated that the Pope's writ no longer runs in England. She averted her gaze, and smoothed the wrinkles in the front of her gown with a small smile teasing the corners of her lips. With the King asserting himself as the leader in all matters in his own realm, the Spanish Ambassador would soon be finding himself quite an irrelevance.

"Naturally, I will tell my master that," Chapuys informed the King, rather casually, for all the annoyance he was causing. "He will pass it on to the Pope that he has no authority here." he added with a shrug.

"Good!" barked Henry, as he threw himself back into his seat. "If that is all, Excellency, the Queen and I will bid you good day."

The Ambassador turned and walked out of the Presence Chamber as though he were returning from a pleasant walk in the park. Anne could only marvel at his nonchalance, while Henry huffed in the seat beside hers.

"Well," she stated, a little over-brightly. "All things considered, I thought that went rather well."

Henry jerked his gaze up to her, a look of incredulity clouding his eyes. But soon, he gave way to laughter that shook his rib cage.

* * *

><p>Margaret, Arthur, and Catherine all sat at the dinner table in silence. The two women seemed to have called an uneasy truce; recent events having taken precedent over perceived wrongs committed in, what seemed to all concerned, a different life. The two were now both demoted Queens, trying to do their best to make the most of an awkward situation. It was a common ground upon which they forged an alliance in the days following the confirmation of Catherine's pregnancy.<p>

Now the three sat in silence, waiting for Lady Mary to join them so the news could be broken to her in the gentlest way possible. The one ray of hope that Arthur clung to was that Mary had been eager to visit her new half-sister, Elizabeth, and had always enjoyed a warm friendship with her half-brother, Henry Fitzroy. She was not averse to siblings; she just had an aversion to him.

When Mary entered, holding the hand of her Governess, Lady Salisbury, she curtseyed deeply to her mother and aunt Margaret, greeting them both formally as her superiors. As usual, she maintained her silence with Arthur; as though he were simply not there. Arthur lowered his gaze and studied his lap while a servant drew up a chair for Mary.

Margaret, however, cleared her throat to speak. Inwardly, Arthur cringed at the thought of her making a scene. But when she adopted her school mistress's stern tone, it was directed at him.

"His Grace forgot to pack his manners when he returned," she said, pointedly, to him. "Or he's been among the common folk so long that his decorum came out in the boil wash and rinse."

Abashed, he looked up at Mary, who hovered half-way between sitting and standing. Her confused gaze darted between Arthur and Margaret, as though she wondered who the rebuke was really for. Arthur suppressed an indignant sigh, and stood up straight with a pained smile; an observation of the protocol for men when women entered the room. After this, he fully intended on having words with Margaret about just what Mary's own manners had been like since she'd arrived at the More.

"Lady Mary," he greeted her.

She looked caught out for a second, as though she were weighing up whether or not to simply carry on ignoring him, and for a moment, Arthur thought that she was about to do just that. Then she walked over dipped into a curtsey, and held out her hand. Confused, wondering what she was doing that for, he glanced over at the women. Catherine was suppressing her laughter by biting into her knuckles, but Margaret helped by lifting her hand and waggling her ring finger. Then he belatedly remembered the correct protocol, and held out his hand for her to kiss.

"Your Grace," said Mary as she brushed a kiss against the back of his hand.

When he raised her, the expression in her hard blue eyes had softened. Her half-smile was not quite so mocking. Only once she was comfortably seated did Arthur resume his place. All these little heirs and graces that he had forgotten and neglected reminded him of what Margaret had told him during their journey to the More. He had been breaking rules without even realising it. At the opposite end of the long table, Catherine looked satisfied.

The correct protocol finally observed, Arthur called signalled for the servants to bring in the meal. Meanwhile, the conversation began on light ground. The women exchanged pleasantries with Mary and sipped at their wine while the platters were arranged neatly at the table and they were served with a morsel of everything.

"Your Uncle and I have some news for you, Mary," said Catherine, once the servants had withdrawn to the outer-gallery.

"What news?" asked Mary, looking from Arthur to Catherine.

Arthur felt his stomach turn over, and let his fork drop back to his plate, earning himself another sharp look from Margaret. He ignored her, and turned to Mary to answer her question. Margaret may have pushed him into addressing her, so now he voluntarily took the next step.

"Your mother and I are to have a child together," he informed her, careful to keep his tone completely measured. "A brother or a sister for you."

Mary almost choked on her dainty forkful of lamb.

"But, how?" she gasped, once she had managed to clear her throat. "What I mean is … You know …" her words trailed off and she blushed deeply. It was hardly seemly for a girl to know such things about her own mother, and she couldn't bring herself to say the word 'barren'.

"It is a shock to us all, my love," said Catherine as she placed her knife down to take Mary's hand. "But we - that is, your uncle, aunt, and I - have talked this through. This can only be God's will, and we must all do the best that we can to get along, now."

"Yes," agreed Margaret. "We must all make an effort, now."

Once again, she looked pointedly towards Arthur, as well as Mary. Mary, however, soon began to relax. The tension was seemed a permanent part of her natural make up seemed to drain. Her smile became a little more natural, but the fear behind her eyes was evident. Her mother was ageing, and everyone had the dangers that went hand in hand with birthing at the backs of their minds. It made her next words all the more surprising to Arthur.

"We should be celebrating," she said. "Why do you all look so solemn?"

The adults exchanged a loaded look.

"Well, it is a little complicated," said Arthur, but Margaret was quick to cut him off.

"Maybe Mary is right," she interjected. "This is obviously God's will, and with God's help something beautiful will come of it. Look, Mary and Charles have a young son, and no one's plotting to make him King against their will."

With Mary so happy looking, Arthur was reluctant to upset the apple cart now. But, they all knew Mary and Charles' son was different. Mary's place in the succession allowed for it, because she was low on the pecking order. Arthur, by rights, should have been above Henry in that same order. The child's mother was twice as royal as any of them. His child's pedigree screamed royalty on both sides.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Catherine and Mary took the air together as the sun set over the horizon. Arthur, in time honoured fashion, lifted a bottle of the finest wine he could find, while Margaret picked the lock of a disused carriage out in the forecourt. It wouldn't be any fun for either of them if anyone knew what they were up to.<p>

She was already seated in the back when he found her.

"What took you so long?" she asked, making room for him on the back seat. "You're loosing your touch, old man."

He glared at her through narrowed eyes. "Oh really?" he replied curtly. "This from the woman who has turned into her grandmother, and not the fun grandmother, either!"

"Oi!" Margaret gasped as she landed a playful swat on his arm.

"Well?" he retorted. "You've been pulling me up on my manners all night. It was like having her back from the dead."

"Oh not her as well!" Margaret shrieked with laugher.

"Hey, she wasn't with me," laughed Arthur. Before he continued, he took time to regain his composure. He had not forgotten the incident at the dinner table. "But really Margaret; Mary has been a horrid little madam, and you made me look about two foot tall back there. I'd never been so embarrassed."

Margaret regarded him coolly for a second, then snatched the wine bottle from his hands and pulled the cork free.

"You may have lost you manners and your etiquette," she replied. "But it's good to see you still have every ounce of your royal pride in tact!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sounding wounded. "I have tried my best with the girl; I really have."

Margaret took a deep swig from straight from the bottle, rendering her lecture about decorum void. Done, she passed the bottle to him.

"Let me tell you how you look to Mary," she began. "To her, you're the uncle she never knew she had. Then, you raced into her life after spending the best of yours a nomadic traveller in the wildernesses of England and Europe. When I first saw you, you even had the arse of your breeches all patched up. We royal ladies are trained from birth to burst into tears whenever men like you cross our paths."

Arthur snorted with laughter, making the wine he was in the middle of swallowing fly up his nasal cavity.

"But it's true, brother!" cried Margaret, flinging her hands up. "When I first clapped eyes on you at Blackfriar's; I knew not whether I should have hugged you, smacked you, or given you a crust of bread as alms and sent you on your way again."

"I wasn't that bad!" he protested.

"You were, so!" she countered. "You were as wretched as the next artisan. Now you're the single biggest authority figure in Mary's life, and you don't understand her. She has the mindset of a Princess, because that is how she has been raised from the moment she took her first breath, until you showed up again and turned her world upside down. Then you stood back and expected her to come to you.

Do you not see what I did at the dinner table? By reminding you that you also owed her the respect of her rank, it took the pressure off Mary. It was a small gesture from you, and one that compelled Mary to respond, rather than ignore."

Arthur hung his head, and mused on the dubious benefits of hindsight. "I didn't look at it like that," he ruefully admitted. "I just … I didn't think …"

"Well, that much is obvious," said Margaret, taking the bottle back off him. "Look, and listen sharp: forget the Exeters, and the Poles, and whatever it is you think they're up to. Concentrate on your own family; of which Mary is an irremovable part. It will keep the King and Queen happy, and it will keep your silly little head safe."

"I've been foolish," he admitted. "I'm sorry. But I always was better at being human, than being royal."

"Humanity and royalty is not mutually exclusive, you know."

Margaret momentarily distracted herself with another swig of wine, and the atmosphere grew remorseful and dour. She hadn't meant to scold him, and now she thought that he'd been read the riot act, she sought to diffuse his guilty feelings.

"Do you have different grandmother's to me?" she asked. Seeing the look of confusion on his face, she continued: "It's just you said one of them was fun. I only remember one who was a little mad at all times, and another who was barking mad at all times."

Arthur snorted with laughter. "I don't remember much about old Woodville," he said. "But I do remember her telling us that, through her lineage, we were all descended from a water goddess who was once a woman who turned into a fish – or something like that!"

"Melusine!" exclaimed Margaret. "Put me off seafood for life."

His family, Arthur thought, were all barking mad. His goddess for for a grandmother. His self-destructive Yorkist uncles. His father dementedly pursuing a crown no matter what the odds. Then he himself; the one who gave it all up for a life on the road. An escape from the madness and badness that made up the Lancaster and York conglomerate that was the Tudors.

But, on the opposite side of the familial coin, there was Mary who followed her heart and married for love. There was Margaret, who stood firm when everyone else fell to pieces, and was still able to enjoy an illicit drink with her brother in the back of a disused carriage like a rebellious child, no matter how old she was. There was Henry and Anne, fighting to stay together and nurturing their love, no matter what the rest of Europe threw at them. There was even young Mary; born a Princess and reduced to a lady, struggling to find her feet in an ever changing world, and who still was able to find it in her heart to show the first signs of forgiveness, and readiness to love a sibling she had not yet met. There was the extended family, too. The stoical Poles who soldiered on, and bore their losses with a silent dignity. Even the Exeters. Henry and Gertrude who, from what Arthur had seen, loved one another deeply, despite their troublesome natures and restless souls. Margaret, he had to admit, was right. Being human and being royal were not mutually exclusive, after all.

Family and ancestry. It was a patchwork of personality and a maze of character. Every birth added a little something to the stitches of the tapestry, and every death removed a little of the colour. Behind every faded name on the tangled branches of their family tree, was the rich story of what made them who they were. Royalty suggested exclusivity to most. But as Arthur pondered on the nature of his family, he thought that anyone could find a place among their ranks. For the first time in his life, all forty-three years of it, he realised that he too had a place in that narrative. And so did his baby, growing and pulsing in the depths of its mother's womb, blissfully unaware of the future. Blissfully unaware of the storm that was brewing on the distant horizon.


	16. Priests and Prophets

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input and comments are greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen: Priests And Prophets.<strong>

The ship glided effortlessly into port on the flat, wrinkled sea; watched carefully by Ursula Pole. She held the hand of a small boy, who's parents – Henry and Gertrude Courtenay – were browsing the colourful market stalls in the town of Dover, just over a mile away. She looked back over her shoulder, at the merchants, tradesmen, farmers, and guildsmen, come to town to cash in on the bustling trade from visitors who flocked to the English coast on every ship. From the luxury, to the illegal, everything could be picked up in Dover. No one, she noted satisfactorily, would pay any attention to her.

She looked back at the ship, and her heart lifted as the passengers began to disembark; weaving slightly as they walked, evidently still on their sea legs. She picked her brother out instantly. A short, slight man, carrying his scant belongings in a woollen sack over his shoulder. He stopped as their eyes met, and beamed in recognition. He had taken Holy orders some time ago, and was still in his vestments, now.

"Reginald," she greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. "Our lady mother will be so relieved to know you are home safe."

He embraced her warmly, and dabbed at a tear with his sleeve. "I have missed you all so much," he whispered into her shoulder. "How I have longed to see you!"

They drew apart, and looked at each other closely. For a moment, they simply savoured being back in each other's presence. Then Reginald, after so many long years on the Continent, started to look all about him, and drinking in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of his home. Then, his eye alighted on the boy at her side.

"Have you had a son and not told me?" he asked.

"Of course not," she laughed. "Reginald, this is our Cousin, Edward Courtenay. I work for the Marquess now, and he is my charge."

"Well that explains the family resemblance," he replied as he dropped down to his haunches, and spoke to Edward directly. "I am pleased to meet you, My Lord."

The boy beamed at being addressed as 'my lord'. "It is my honour, Father Pole," he dutifully replied, and gave a gallant little bow.

Soon, the three of them were taking a leisurely stroll along the sea front. They caught up on the family business, before turning to the wider business, and what it was that had brought Reginald back to England.

"So, the Pope himself charged you to do this?" asked Ursula, giving him a sideways look.

"He thought the King might take it better from an Englishman," explained Reginald. "Especially given King Henry's current attitude towards foreign influences in England. Tell me, how far has King gone in this matter? We don't trust our sources in England to give us the full picture any more."

Ursula paused as she got the facts right in her mind. "Well," she began. "Monastic houses are being suppressed without the permission of His Holiness. Latin mass is about to phased out, and English Bibles are no longer illegal, here. He is turning into a Lutheran, Reginald. There are no two ways about it."

Reginald paused, and leaned in close, as though fearing being over-heard. "How have the common people reacted to this?" he whispered.

Ursula's gaze darted furtively around before leaning in a littler closer to his ear, and spoke in a voice that was barely a whisper. "The people are not happy. There have been stirrings, Reginald," she said, her eyes still directed over his shoulder. "The King's ministers, and even the Queen herself, downplay these stirrings so he doesn't know about them-"

"He'll know about them," Reginald interjected. "Don't fool yourself; Henry knows everything that happens in this realm."

Ursula resumed their walk; unsure what to make of anything that was happening all around her, now. Everything seemed to be changing so fast, that she could no longer keep up with it all. But, she knew that there was one more thing that could change everything even more.

"Reginald," she said. "The former Queen is pregnant with Arthur's child. What do you make of that? More importantly, what do you think the common folk will make of that?"

Ursula turned to Reginald to get his reaction, but he was not there. She whirled around, and saw that he had stopped in surprise when she informed him of Catherine's pregnancy. With a small sigh, she had to repeat what she had said, adding that the information had come straight from there mother.

"This can be used in so many ways," he said, awestruck. "The whole world thinks that she is barren; the dogs in the street think that Catherine is barren, and has been so for years. People will take this as a sign from God, and if things don't go our way with Henry, then all we need to do is help the people interpret that sign. Anything could happen, sister. Anything."

* * *

><p>Catherine swept through the Great Hall of The More, and cast an appraising eye over the long trestle table. It had been covered with a cloth of silk, and was set with gold plate, silver platters, and silver utensils. The fluted, Venetian glasses, sparkled in the sunlight that filled the hall; there was none of the usual pewter goblets for this family occasion. She, Mary, Arthur and Margaret, had now also been joined by the duke and duchess of Suffolk, and that night's dinner was going to be a grand social event for them all. Even the household staff had places at a second, lower table.<p>

Now that she was no longer Queen, and attending state functions, or carrying out duties, her pregnancy was easy. She almost called it enjoyable. She could rest whenever she wished, she no longer had to worry about receiving important guests, or observing the niceties of state visits when all she wanted to do was lie back and sleep. But most of all, and there was where the biggest change came about, it no longer mattered whether the child was male or female. She no longer spent every spare moment of her pregnancies on her knees, giving herself pressure sores from the flagstones, praying for a son. For the first time in her life, she could enjoy doing that most natural of things for women; being an expectant mother. She ran a hand over her rapidly swelling belly, and smiled.

"You look happy!"

Arthur's voice startled her out of her private thoughts. "Because I am," she replied, leaning up to kiss him. "Are your sisters settled in?"

"They are; everything is perfect my love," replied Arthur as he wrapped his arms around her. "I just spoke to the chef, and the dinner will begin soon. Why don't you sit down and wait for us? The servants can sort the seating out."

She nodded her agreement, and did just that. While waiting for the others, they passed the time with small talk. Lady Mary was eager to have the new baby lodged in rooms that were connected to her own, and had busied herself planning necessary refurbishments. That baby, they agreed, had proved to be the glue that united them as a family unit. Catherine had informed him that she had written to the Emperor, asking him politely to cease and desist in threatening the King of England. But still, they wanted to keep the pregnancy a secret, known only to the closest of friends and family.

Soon, however, and the rest of the family had joined them. They greeted one another, and the household staff (joining the lower table), and waited as the younger servants poured them wine and brought out the food.

"Charles and I heard the strangest of things, on the road," said Mary, once the servants had withdrawn.

"What was that?" asked Margaret.

"The people were talking about a young Nun in Kent, making prophesies," explained Mary with a look at Charles, who picked up the thread.

"According to those who've seen her, she goes into a trance, during which God himself communicates directly with her," he added.

"Charlatans like that are ten a penny," scoffed Arthur. "What is so strange about this one?"

"They say that people have come from Court to see her," stated Mary.

"Important people," added Charles, giving them a knowing look from his place across the table.

That clouded revelation was met with a blank silence; not quite the reaction that Charles was hoping for. Arthur cleared his throat and took a sip of his wine.

"More fool them!" he laughed.

"More fool her, you mean?" retorted Margaret. "They'll exploit that silly girl to their own ends, and somehow, I doubt a maid from the Kent countryside will be quite prepared for the Court wolves sinking their poisoned fangs into her."

"Wasn't our esteemed Queen once a Maid from the Kent countryside?" asked Catherine, still not quite able to keep the distaste from her tone. "That's all I ever saw in her; no matter where she grew up."

"Well she is a different matter altogether," replied Charles. "Anyway, she's getting a visit from one her new cousins now."

"Oh really?" asked Catherine "Who?"

"Reginald Pole," Charles answered. "Just as I was leaving Court, he had arrived in the port of Dover. He comes with a message from the Pope."

A shudder rippled around all of them; each glad to be absent from Court for that audience. Arthur ordered the servants to begin carving the roast, and serving their guests while the uncomfortable talk of Court came winding to a conclusion. The last thing any of them wanted was to get mired in politics and the state of the nation when they had a new life to celebrate. For one night only, Arthur assured himself, they would be a normal family, enjoying a family reunion.

* * *

><p>Henry and Anne stole a final kiss before entering the Presence Chamber. It was early in the morning, and they had just awoken from a night spent in the Queen's bed and could still feel the warmth of their shared body heat, and the caress of their skin against each other as they made love. It was still only a matter of months since the birth of Princess Elizabeth, but news of Catherine's pregnancy had jolted them into trying again. They needed an heir more than ever. But now, despite their sleep drugged minds, they had to focus on the day ahead.<p>

They took their seats on the dais, beneath the cloth of state, and Henry nodded for the first person to be admitted. They already knew that it was Reginald Pole, and he entered with the look of a condemned man about him. Henry and Anne exchanged a pointed look before turning to look back at Pole.

"You're welcome back to England, master Pole," stated Henry, gruffly. "I believe his holiness has some complaints."

Pole turned his pale eyed gaze from Anne, and back to Henry. "They are not complaints, Your Majesty," he said, guardedly. "But the holy father is concerned at the dissolution of his monastic houses-"

Henry raised a hand for silence. "His monastic houses?" he repeated, eyebrow cocked. "Unless I am mistaken, these monastic houses are actually in England, and therefore mine? To do with as I please?"

Anne smiled, proud that Henry was taking control of his own Kingdom. But Pole shuddered. It was almost imperceptible, but his flesh suddenly crawled as he found himself in defiance of the man who was still his King.

"They belong to the Church," he stammered in reply. "The head of the Holy See, strictly speaking, is the master of all religious houses within the Papal See."

From William the Conqueror, to Henry II and Edward III; English Kings had developed a knack for annoying the Pope and pushing the very limits of Papal authority in England. But this King had been different. He had promised to uphold the Pope, and been made defender of the faith for his efforts. Pole could only marvel at how a tide could turn so suddenly.

Henry smiled, and gave a sad shake of his head. "Master Pole," he stated magnanimously. "Please, return to his holiness, and tell him that the Queen, and I, are grateful for his efforts on our behalf. But, these are English affairs, and being dealt with by Englishmen. He should tend his own house, and leave England to me."

Pole looked even more deflated once the King had finished speaking. "It isn't that simple, Your Majesty," he said, silently imploring Henry to yield an inch. "There is talk of excommunication-"

He was cut from a high, mirthless, laugh from the Queen. "Excommunication from what?" she asked; an unmistakable sneer in her haughty voice. "Excommunication from a Church that is mired in sin seems to me to be no bad thing! They can choke me on their wafers all they like, but it brings no one closer to God. Only the Bible can do that."

Pole blanched as her words registered. His gaze jerked up to where she sat; elbow propped on the arm rest, hand resting lightly at her slender throat. Her lip was curled at the corner as she looked down at him, and he felt himself harden against her. Never had he heard such heresy, so openly touted in the Court of a Christian country. But then, he never did get out much. Henry rose to his feet, and closed the space between himself and Pole.

"Reginald," he said, whispering intimately in the man's ear as he placed an affectionate arm around his shoulders. "When you're in England, who do you obey first and foremost?"

"Why, you, of course-"

"Exactly," replied Henry, with a smile. "When you are in Rome, who do you obey first and foremost?"

"The holy father-"

"Excellent," Henry cut him off again. "We are agreed, cousin."

Pole's eyes widened in panic. "But, Your Majesty, it isn't as simple-"

"Yes!" stated Henry firmly, as he began walking Pole back the way he came. "Yes it is that simple, Reginald. We are agreed. Let us leave at that, lest we should disagree. Neither of us want that."

It was clear, from the finality in the tone of the King, that the audience had come to its end. Pole, for a moment, looked set to protest further, but facing the door, he cut his losses and left. Henry watched the doors close after him, and listened for a second while his footsteps retreated down the outer chamber. He turned to look at Anne over his shoulder.

"To think I paid for that man's education!" he cried, flinging his arms up. "Little wretch comes in here to lecture me on obedience to the Pope!"

Anne laughed into her sleeve, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "You handled him well, my love," she said between fits of laughter.

He resumed his seat, planting a kiss on Anne's cheek as he did so. "Now, with him out of the way, I need to hold Counsel. We have the matter of Catherine's child to discuss," he explained. "God knows, she'll lose it just like she lost all those others. But, we need to be prepared for a living child, too."

The laugher in Anne's eyes died in an instant, and she turned rigid in her seat. "Of course," she replied stiffly. "Do what you must."

"Do not worry, Nan," he said, reverting to his old, affectionate, pet name for her. "We will have a son of our own; my faith in you is unshakable. Tonight, I will prove it all over again."

He winked suggestively at her, making her grin again. "Now that is something to look forward to," she replied. Relieved, was her overwhelming feeling. It seemed his liaison with that silly cousin of hers was over already.

* * *

><p>Arthur paused, and set his pen down; careful to avoid dripping ink over the surface of the letter he was trying to write, and listened. The women's voices drifted in through the open window, from where they took the air together in the gardens. The weather was mild, for the time of year, and it seemed the whole household was out of doors, more than in. Not that Arthur minded, as he was so used to working in silence, undisturbed.<p>

He crossed the room, and paused by the window. Outside, Catherine and Lady Salisbury were seated on a bench, near some rose beds. Catherine had a Christening gown spread out on her lap, and she was focussed on mending the hems as she chatted easily with the Countess, unaware that he was listening.

"I would have thought that Reginald would have come to visit you by now," said Catherine, turning from her embroidery for a moment.

"Well, he is on his way," replied Lady Salisbury. "He had to attend to some business to attend to in Kent, but he will be here soon."

Arthur turned back from the window with a silent sigh. With Margaret, Mary, and Charles all staying, soon there would be more people at The More than there was at Hampton Court. There was even talk of the King paying another visit. But, as Arthur resumed his seat at the table, taking the pen back in his ink-stained fingers, he couldn't help but be curious about Reginald Pole's meetings in Kent; meetings so important he had to delay visiting his mother who he'd not seen in nigh on a decade. He heaved a sigh, and dropped his pen again. Giving it up as a bad job, he decided to escape the clamouring activity of the More, and take his favourite hounds for an excessively lengthy walk.


	17. The Barren Queen and the Lost Prince

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your comments are always gratefully received. Thank you. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Just as an extra note on my Prophetess (as she was not included in the Show); she was a real person (Elizabeth Barton, aka the Maid of Kent), and not just someone I have invented.

Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter 17: The Barren Queen and the Lost Prince.<strong>

The wide eyed crowd fell into an expectant hush and parted, making a path for a young girl to be led to the front of the hall. Beside her obvious youth, she was thin; so frail looking it seemed a breeze would blow her across the Narrow Sea, to France. At either side, two Priests seemed to be holding her up. Her wide-eyed face scanned the room; left to right, in front and behind her, as she approached the small stage that had been hastily erected for the event. Once she had been deposited on the stage, where all could see her, nothing seemed to happen for a long time.

That long moment of waiting spun itself out, and the expectation of the crowds built to a fever-pitch. The breath hitched in the girl's throat, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head, so that only the whites showed. She gasped, as though choking, and fell back against the wall. The crowds gasped; inching forwards for fear that she was genuinely hurt or endangered. Just as a well dressed spectator rose to his feet to call for a physician, the girl suddenly spoke. Her voice much stronger than her wisp of a body,

"The angels have delivered their message," she informed them, eyes still trying to see out of the back of her head. "God has ordained that the barren Queen, and the lost Prince shall have a son. A son that is even now in the barren Queen's belly. This is God's will, and this is His sign, and He has chosen them-"

A murmur rippled around the assembled crowds, and drowned out the rest of the girl's sentence. One man, clinging to the shadows at the rear of the hall had seen enough, and he ducked out of the door with a scowl darkening his features. One of the Priests who had assisted the Prophetess, also, headed towards another, side door. Out there, Reginald Pole was waiting for him.

"Bocking?" said Pole as the man caught his eye. "It's Edward Bocking, isn't it?"

"You must be Father Pole?" the Priest replied with a nod, confirming that he was indeed Edward Bocking. "What do you think of Elizabeth? Was there enough information there for you?"

"It will do for now," replied Reginald, reaching into his sack, from where he withdrew a purse. "Here is your payment. I am returning to Europe two days hence, so further payments will come from a woman named Gertrude Courtenay-"

"I know her," said Bocking. "She has visited Elizabeth already. But tell me, before I train Elizabeth to repeat these prophesies regarding Arthur and Catherine, she is most assuredly with child?"

Reginald stopped counting the coins, and looked up at Bocking earnestly. "My mother, the Countess of Salisbury works for her, it is a fact. Don't worry, I won't make your girl look foolish," he assured the Priest. No more foolish than she already looks, Reginald silently added as he handed over the payment. The transaction completed; he turned to leave, but Bocking called after him.

"One of the King's men was here, tonight," he said. "I saw him leave just before I came out to see you."

"Did you know that Henry was on to you?" asked Reginald, taking a backwards step, and fixing him with a hard look. "That girl, from what I have heard, has been a Gnat's whisker away from treason. I suggest you watch yourself. The Holy Father will not protect you, or Elizabeth."

"The people will protect us, Father Pole," answered Bocking. "But, one more thing before you go. How many people know about Catherine's pregnancy? I need to make this look as though she has foretold the event; it won't work too well if half of England already knows."

Pole smiled. "Don't worry about that," he replied. "The people who know can be counted on one hand. The King is as keen as Arthur and Catherine to keep this under tight wraps."

They exchanged a business-like handshake to conclude their meeting, and went their separate ways. As Pole left, he could hear the girl in the hall. Elizabeth Barton, a puppet prophetess, relaying messages from angels and demons alike. He paused to listen at a crack in the main doors before leaving, listening in on her latest, hazy at best, revelations. According to her, Elizabeth of York lies weeping in the arms of the angels over what Henry has done to the monasteries. He had to give her credit for knowing how to work a crowd.

* * *

><p>The Physician, William Butts, left the Queen's chambers, and nodded to the King. The two of them withdrew to a private chamber, just off the main gallery that made up the royal apartments of Hampton Court. With a smile, he turned to Henry, and confirmed the good news.<p>

"The Queen is with child again, Your Majesty."

Henry let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, doctor Butts," he replied, giving the man an avuncular clap on the shoulder. "That's excellent news."

"Congratulations, Your Grace. We shall all be praying for a son."

With the good news confirmed, Henry gave the doctor's hand another firm shake, making his appreciation clear. They parted happily, and he rushed for the Queen's chambers. Their prayers had been answered, and earlier than expected. Elizabeth was barely eight months old. But, he knew that Anne would be fertile; providing him with plenty of healthy children – boys and girls – to secure the realm and build their international standing.

Lady Jane Seymour curtseyed deeply as the King entered Anne's chambers, and he found the Queen herself, up and about. She was picking at some comfits, with a glass of sweet wine at her side. Mary Boleyn, and Lady Jane Boleyn were attending her carefully. But now that he had arrived, he wanted Anne all to himself. Gesturing for the women to leave, Henry knelt before his wife, and kissed her cheek.

"I am so proud of you, darling," he softly said. "How are you? Is the sickness bad?"

Anne's face lit up with a smile. "Hardly any," she replied happily. "I feel wonderful this time. Completely different to Elizabeth." She craved different foods, and it felt it a good omen for a son.

Henry held out his arms to help her to her feet, and led her over to their favourite spot by the windows. The early summer warmth was welcome against their skin, as they sat back in each other's arms. Time spent alone was infrequent, and relished.

"How is business?" she asked. "I trust those gatherings in Yorkshire and Somerset have been dealt with?"

"I have sent your uncle up to Yorkshire to deal with them," replied Henry. "The Duke of Suffolk is now on his way to Somerset. It will be over soon, I promise."

The illegal assemblies had been gathering at the sites of the dissolved monasteries. Church Commissioners had been attacked, and the people had proved stubborn about the "old ways". It was a frustration they both could have done without, but Henry was keen to reassure Anne. Now that she was pregnant, all he wanted her to do was concentrate on that.

"Uncle Norfolk will hang them all," she laughed as she lay back in his arms, resting her head beneath his chin. "How is George getting on in the Privy Council?"

"Fine," he answered. "You know I have always been fond of George. And don't worry, that other matter he raised, the Maid of Kent. I have given him permission to investigate her activities."

Anne opened her eyes and sat up; looking at Henry directly. "Don't hurt her, Henry," she said, her expression soft with compassion. "She is just a poor, sickly girl. You know how the Priests use girls like her, and put outrageous ideas in their heads."

"What?" asked Henry. "You mean, she isn't really communing with the angels?"

He snorted with laughter, and Anne landed a playful swat on his leg. "It's not funny," she chided, but the grin on her face belied her amusement. "Ask Thomas More to write to her, and shut her up."

Henry agreed. More, after all, was one of the names he had heard in association with Elizabeth Barton. Out of nowhere, the girl and her shadowy handlers had appeared. Some said she was no more than a child, but had been having visions since infancy. How they could tell that, Henry didn't know, however, he did know that the commoners would believe anything. That alone made the Maid of Kent dangerous.

* * *

><p>Arthur closed in on Catherine, and held her close. The time had come for her to withdraw into her confinement, and await the birth of her child. This moment, for Arthur, was one of excitement and abject fear in equal measure, and with just a dash of longing. God alone knew when his wife would return to him, and someone once told him their wife was gone three months in the confinement chamber.<p>

"Are you scared?" he asked her, once they had drawn apart.

"No," she replied with a pinched smile. "Whatever happens is God's will. We must accept that."

Not for one moment did Arthur believe that he had to like God's will, but he held his peace. He linked his arm through hers, and together they entered the confinement chamber. The windows were blocked, and the fire was lit. In addition to the warmth of the summer season, it made the heat almost unbearable. He had never been in a confinement chamber before, and he was left wondering how on earth any woman coped with it.

"It looks like a dungeon," he remarked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I'm not sure I want my baby to born in here."

No wonder most babies died at birth, he added silently to himself, taking in the wall hangings, and the dull paintings that had been put up. The scene was almost desolate. The only colour came from a gaudy coloured figure of the virgin Mary. In the semi-darkness, they turned to face each other again. He tilted up her chin, and kissed her lips.

"I ought to leave you now," he whispered in her ear. "My masculinity might make the place impure."

Catherine choked back a laugh, and kissed him again. "Go," she said. "Mary will be here with me, and she will keep you informed of everything. Do not fear, and I shall give you a healthy, beautiful child. I can feel it."

Neither had dared to hope that the pregnancy would go this far. But, it had. Whoever was in there had defied the odds, and all the expectations, and thrived. Arthur had felt the kicks himself. A sensation that made him feel ten foot tall with pride. So, it was with one final snatched kiss, that Arthur left Catherine with her women. When he saw her again, he would be a father for the first time in his life.

It was as he made his way outside to take the air that the messenger came riding at speed up the forecourt of the Castle. Dust clouds billowed at the horse's pounding hooves, and the noise was deafening on the beaten earth track. Arthur's sisters had already left, so the messenger was definitely for him. With a sigh, he went out to greet the rider.

"Good morrow, sir," Arthur called out to the man.

The rider pulled hard on the horse's reins, and brought the powerful creature to a halt, and dismounted before the horse had even settled. The man's face was set firm; grim.

"A message from a concerned friend, Your Grace," he said, and swept a low bow to Arthur. "I have been charged to speak with you, as a letter would be incriminating, if you understand me, Your Grace."

Arthur fixed the man with a hard stare. "Incriminating?" he repeated, tremulously.

"Yes, Your Grace," the messenger replied. "My name is William Dormer, and my master is Thomas More. It was he who sent me; can we speak privately?"

Arthur's nerves began to settle when More's name was mentioned. He was a sensible man; a man who would never defy the King or drag anyone into silly plots. So Arthur gestured to the man to follow him into the kitchen. At this time of day, it was empty. Only the cleaning boy worked diligently in the background, scrubbing at the stoves, but pausing to bow politely as Arthur entered.

"Richie," he said to the boy, tossing him a silver coin. "Go off and play for an hour boy. I need to talk to this man."

The child looked down at the coin in his hand, and grinned. With rushed, and profuse thanks, he tossed his rag in a pile by the door and disappeared in a haze of dust. Once they were alone, Arthur turned to William.

"What has More charged you to deliver?" he asked, his mouth suddenly running dry with nerves. None of this sounded good.

"I was sent by my Master to investigate Elizabeth Barton – you may know her as the Maid of Kent," explained William. "Well sire, she has been prophesying about you, and the Duchess. We thought that you should know."

The breath hitched in his throat as he asked: "What has she been saying exactly?"

"She said that the Duchess's pregnancy is a sign from God that you should be King," he replied, bluntly. "She has foretold that it will be a boy, and that he will be King after you."

Arthur pushed back his chair and got to his feet in nervous agitation. He felt sick and the fear made his blood turn to ice in his veins. "King after me?" he angrily snapped. "The silly little whore will get us both killed!"

"Now that you are forewarned of her activities," the messenger calmly pressed on. "My master begs you to take action."

"Does Henry know about this?" he asked, his mind racing ahead of himself. "How did she even know about this? This pregnancy has been a closely guarded secret, and don't give me any horse shit about angels, either!"

Arthur stopped himself mid-flow; realising that he was merely shooting down the messenger. He stopped pacing the floor, and tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths and massaging the ache that had blossomed at his temples.

"Any number of spies could have let slip, Your Grace," replied Will, trying with all his might to sound reassuring. "Look, I must go now. But, my master told me to assure you that he will speak with the King on your behalf if things should go badly at Court."

Once William Dormer had left, Arthur's mind raced again. A hundred possibilities whirled through his mind, and he could settle on no one course of action. He was torn between going straight to Court to explain everything to the King, and staying behind to wait for the birth of the child. If he tarried, would Henry think him guilty? If he rushed to Court, would Henry think him guilty, anyway? One never knew with Henry. With him, any number of actions could be perceived any number of ways, depending upon his mood.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed a drink. He left the kitchen via the internal door, and headed for the Castle Solar. If he felt compelled to leave for Court now, he would hunt these people down and hang them himself.


	18. Charm Offensive

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, all comments are gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen: The Charm Offensive.<strong>

King Henry lowered the document he held, and glanced across the table at his brother. Arthur looked back at him apologetically as their eyes met. A few moments of strained silence passed, before Henry continued to quietly read. At Henry's side, Anne sat inspecting a jewelled bracelet that hung loosely from her slender wrist; watching how the coloured gems caught the light. Only occasionally did her gaze rise to Arthur. Otherwise, she seemed quite indifferent to what was going on.

The servants shifted uncomfortably at the edge of the room, all peering tentatively as the King read on. Eventually, Henry cleared his throat, making them all start and stare again, as though their attention had flagged. He then read aloud from the document:

"The Prophetess then declared at divers places about the southern parts of the Realm, that the barren Queen was big with child, and that that child is to be a boy – ordained by God to be King of these Islands," read Henry, pausing to glance around at the incredulous faces of his servants. Arthur coloured, and squirmed in his seat. "A king who would reign after his father." concluded Henry, and he let the document drop to the table, from where Anne picked it up to read for herself.

Arthur wet his lips, and kept his nerve. "Surely, Your Grace, you can see I had nothing to do with this," he said, looking directly at Henry. "You know the lengths I went to …" His words broke.

He wanted to avoid raking up the embers of the past, but at the same time he had to remind Henry of why he'd left in the first place. Henry sighed in exasperation, and sat back in his seat. He was torn in two. He knew full well that his brother was loyal, and he knew full well events like this would keep happening. Actions would be twisted; words taken out of context, to add substance to the empty, and justification to the unjustifiable. Everyone had an agenda.

"None of this is your fault," said Henry, quietly. "But the people are starting to believe that this is a sign from God that you should be King, and not me."

"Then arrest them!" retorted Arthur. "Surely there is something in the treason laws about this?"

"Therein lies the problem," said Anne as she neatly folded the report away, running her sharp nails over the folds in the parchment. "They have stated no such thing in as many words. They have got as close as they could to treason, without actually going that one step too far."

One step too far, Arthur thought to himself. The words struck him. These people were like children playing at a cliff edge. Goading each other on to get as close to the edge as they could; with their feet sticking out over the lip of the land, where the sheer drop could send them to their deaths. Then, just as the land was about to give way, they would leap back. He knew he had to be careful, lest he be caught in the rock-fall.

"Maybe you should go on Progress," suggested Arthur. "Show yourself to the people, and remind them who their real King is."

Show the people a spectacle they'll never forget, kiss a few babies and bless a few lepers; then all the ills in the world would be forgotten. That was generally how it worked. Even the Queen beamed brightly at the suggestion. If there was one thing that Henry had in abundance, it was charm. People were drawn to him; moths to a flame, and he never failed to fill a room.

"Henry it's a brilliant idea," Anne enthused, gripping his hand in hers. "We could go-"

"No," Henry cut her off. "The baby."

"It will take that long to plan," said Arthur, looking from Henry to Anne.

"He's right, Henry."

Arthur could see that Henry was still unconvinced, but he had seized on an idea that he was sure would help repair the damage being done. "If Her Grace delivers a healthy baby boy, then what way to celebrate than a tour of the Kingdom to show them both off? If the people could see the Queen, and your children, the impact would be immense."

The Royal Family, to most, were abstracts. They were remote stars who inhabited a completely different orbit to their own. Some, in the far northern regions, didn't even know what the King's name was, never mind what he looked like (beside the rough hewn face on the coins). Beside the promise of travel, the prospect of showing off seemed to have tempted the King. He had a reluctant smile on his face, and his shoulders relaxed.

"The more lies these people spread," stated Henry. "The further we will travel to refute them in person."

Arthur and Anne grinned as they made their little breakthrough. Against the malcontent's and the troublemakers, they would launch a dynastic charm offensive and win the hearts of the people with an explosion of pomp and pageantry that hadn't been seen in years. Thus, their meeting broke up with the Queen retiring to her chambers for a rest. But, before Arthur caught the tide to return home, he and Henry decided to take the air in the Palace gardens, away from the prying eyes of the Privy Chambers.

"I still need answers, Arthur," said Henry.

He spoke softly, but Arthur could sense a rebuke coming his way all the same. He measured his step so that he was a full pace behind his brother, and let him continue uninterrupted.

"Catherine's pregnancy was a secret, until this Barton girl started spouting it to all and sundry," he said, gesturing wildly to the flowerbeds as it were their fault. "It is down to you to find out who told her, and what it is they're playing at. It must have been someone in your own household; someone close by. When you find them, you bring them to me."

Arthur looked down at his feet. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied, making sure to keep his tone even.

Henry stopped, and put his hand to Arthur's chest. They looked at each other for a second, before Henry added:

"You get a grip on that household of yours," he said, not quite neutralising the menace in his voice. "Control your own people, and get this sorted before anything can happen. Because if this goes any further, I will hold you responsible."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth clamped her hands to the sides of her head, as though that would stop the spinning. The room around her blurred, the furniture and walls becoming nothing more than nebulous blurs of colour that bled into each other. She shut her eyes, and steadied her breathing; taking slow, deep breaths. She stood up too fast, or at least that is what she tried to tell herself. But then her temperature soared, and the sweat beaded over her pale skin. Her knees buckled as the ground seemed to pitch below her feet, and she fell sidelong onto the beaten earth floor of her small room.<p>

Although she couldn't see the other people in the room any more, she could sense them. She could sense them hovering over her, staring at her intently, expecting the revelations to come at any second. From far away, she could hear their voices; trying to reach her and cajole the information out of her. She had nothing to give but the froth foaming at the corners of her mouth as the seizure gripped every fibre of her body. The breath hitched in her throat, and her chin grew moist. Whether she had bitten in to her tongue and begun to bleed, or whether she was dribbling again; she could not tell. Nor did she have long to ponder before her mind was washed blank, and she was dragged below a deep, dark, tide.

Seconds, possibly hours later, and she was back. The room swam into view as though a fog were clearing before her eyes. Her breathing was ragged, and her body was drained of energy. She couldn't do so much as lift her head. But otherwise, it was as though nothing had happened. All that she was aware of was the dust beneath her fingertips, where her arms were laid against the earth. An ache throbbed at the base of her skull; had she hit her head? She couldn't remember a thing.

"Elizabeth."

The man spoke softly. A person unseen gently slid their hands beneath her armpits, and raised her up. Soon, she was looking up into the face of Edward Bocking. She remembered him being there before the seizure, and she faintly recalled others, too. But their names were gone.

"Elizabeth," he repeated her name, a little more firmly this time.

Elizabeth tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry. Her tongue clicked off the roof of her mouth, and it felt like parchment. The cold hit her. It always did after one of her fits, and soon she was trembling like an autumn leaf in the Priest's arms.

"What is she trying to say?" demanded a female voice.

Elizabeth remembered them now. Two important ladies from Court had come to see her. Now, she had to fight to find the words she thought that they wanted to hear.

"Patience please, Lady Blount," implored Bocking. "Elizabeth's visitations leave her drained and scared. Isn't that right, my dear?"

She had her head in his lap, now. She rolled her eyes upwards, to see him peering tenderly back down at her. He reached up behind him, and groped for a goblet that was sat on a table behind him,

"Here," he said, lowering it down to her lips. "Wine, to restore you. Take your time, Bess."

He always looked after her. Not like those other people; the ones in her village who mocked her and took turns to imitate her fits. She could remember the other children, now. They would roll back their eyes, pull grotesque faces and let their tongues loll; uttering screeches as they performed silly masquerades of her. When she cried, they threw rocks at her hoping the pain would bring on another fit for their amusement. The adults were as bad. They said that God was punishing her. Sometimes, they even blamed her for their failed crops, an infant death, or any other calamity. She was a freak, and she was bringing them all bad luck. She was an outcast.

Then, after one fit, and the bullying began all over again, she lost her temper. She screamed at the children that God spoke to her during her black outs, and that God was sending angels to her and they were going to punish everyone who had ever scorned her. Of course, they laughed at first. But word spread, and along came Edward Bocking, a local Priest who promised to take care of her. And he did. He gave her new clothes, wholesome food, and shelter in his house. Sometimes, he even let her sleep in his bed so he could watch over her as she slept, (but that was their secret). She didn't realise that other human beings were capable of such compassion, and she was keen to reward his faith in her.

"I am recovered, Father," she managed to say after a few mouthfuls of wine. "Thank you."

She passed the goblet back to Bocking, and managed to sit up by herself. Once up, she could see the other two women - who's names she could still not recall. They were the most finely dressed ladies she had ever seen, though. One of them, the taller of the two, and more richly attired than the other, looked from Elizabeth and then to Bocking.

"Is she ready yet?" she asked imperiously.

Elizabeth looked up at Edward, who was now hovering near the fireplace. He turned to face the woman, but she answered before he could speak.

"What would you like to know, my lady?" asked Elizabeth. "I will give you all the information the angels gave me."

She couldn't remember seeing the angels, but she was now sure of their message to her.

"Is there any news regarding the King, the former Queen, and the rightful King?" asked the other, shorter lady.

"The rightful King and former Queen's son will be born any day now," replied Elizabeth. "Unless I am mistaken in my interpretation; the babe is being delivered now. God will intercede for Catherine, and spare her. She is part of His plan for England."

The two women turned to face each other.

"Did you hear that, Ursula," said the lady Bocking had called Blount. She then turned back to Elizabeth. "When will be the best time to strike?"

"As soon as the child is born," replied Elizabeth. The only images she had in her head were of Joan of Arc. "With God's guidance, and the will of the angels, I can lead your armies against the heretic King. This is our Holy Crusade."

She glanced over at Bocking while the Ursula and Lady Blount conferred with each other. He looked back at her with a smile on his face, and nodded his approval for her continuation. She too smiled; relieved at having his approval.

"What about Arthur?" asked Ursula, looking intently at Elizabeth.

"Arthur will be King until his son is ready to take over," stated Elizabeth. "The child is the chosen one; not him. He gave it all up, and so God has ordained that he will do so again, once the child is mature."

The woman smiled, apparently satisfied at the answer. As one, they rose to their feet, and crossed the room to speak privately with Father Bocking. Elizabeth did not even try to listen in. Instead, she found herself recalling her childhood tormentors. She would be the one to save them from the heretic King now; for when a King is excommunicated, his people are damned along with him. She smiled to herself as she lay back against the floor, and slipped into a fitful doze.

* * *

><p>The candlelight guttered, making it hard for Catherine to focus on the fading ink that formed the text of her book. Eventually, she gave up, and set the book down. Her early contractions had already begun, but were still several minutes apart, and so she was not really reading any way. Instead, she let her eyes rest on the page, and sent up silent prayers to all the saints in heaven to intercede for her and the baby. For a safe delivery for them both.<p>

Mary and Lady Salisbury were laying out basins of heated water, fresh cloths were neatly folded into piles in the corner, and the midwife fussed over burning herbs in the hearth. The aroma was dry, pungent, but strangely calming in the darkening chambers. At the moment, all was calm and under control. But from past experience, Catherine knew all of that would change as soon as the contractions were moments apart and the baby was well on its way.

To savour the last hour or two of relative tranquillity, Catherine eased herself further down between the crisp, clean linens, and closed her eyes. The babe was quickening, so there was no hope of real rest. She could feel it squirming, and fighting its way out. Then the contraction began again. Building, then moving rapidly up her middle as the muscle seemed to render itself. Then quickly, it died away as she sat bolt upright.

"Mother," Mary gasped as she swooped down to Catherine's bedside. "What is happening?"

Mary had never witnessed a birth before. She had hovered, wide eyed and nervous, at the edges of the room since the first pains began. Now she clasped her mother's hand, and peered at her with such an intensity and fear that it made Catherine nervous, also.

"It is normal," she assured the girl. "I tell you what, why don't you go and wait for Arthur in the Solar. He is due back any minute now, and you can inform him of what is happening? Keep him company for me."

It was the best way to spare Mary the ordeal of having to watch a potentially fatal birthing without making it sound like she was being dismissed. She looked sceptical; torn between wanting to support her mother, and not wanting too see her go through the ordeal of childbearing. In the end, she let go, and obeyed the order.

"I'll be praying for you," she said as she leant over to kiss Catherine's forehead. "I'll pray for you both."

Catherine raised a pained smile and watched as Mary left. Once she was gone, she looked to Lady Salisbury and the Midwife. Already, sooner than she had expected, the contractions were building again. Now just minutes apart, the time had come already.

"Ladies," she said, gesturing to them both. "The baby is coming."

Together, they rolled up their sleeves and removed the blankets from the bed so Catherine could move about more freely. The Midwife insisted that it would ease the process along, especially if Catherine was kneeling. A new technique that was still being explored by physicians and midwives across the world. Lady Salisbury was sceptical, but Catherine was willing to try anything. Now, without further ado, they prepared themselves for a long night.

* * *

><p>Henry's dire warnings were still echoing in Arthur's mind, even as he disembarked from the barge that had conveyed him back to the More. The forecourt was silent when he arrived, and the night had fully closed in. But even so, it was odd that not a soul seemed to be about. He fumbled in his pockets for the right coins and a tip to pay the boatman, almost dropping them to the invisible ground in the process, before hurrying indoors to find out what was going on. As he let himself in, however, Mary rushed up to him in a flurry of panic.<p>

"The babe is coming," she panted, grabbing his wrists and leading him through the great hall.

In an instant, Arthur forgot about the previous day's meeting with his brother and the Queen, and found himself fixating on what was going on in Catherine's confinement chamber. Mary had dropped his wrist, and run on ahead of him, leaving him to linger in the hallway while he gathered his wits.

Even though he had been preparing for this moment since it was first revealed that Cate was pregnant, he felt as though the real thing had sprung up out of the blue and slapped him in the face. As he neared Catherine's chambers, he could see now that the maids were hurrying backwards and forwards like a swarm of angry bees around a hive. He tried to catch the attention of several, but they were so pre-occupied that he went unnoticed, or even worse, one would simply tell him every thing was going to be fine, but leave out what was actually happening at that moment.

Sensing himself to be nothing more than an obstacle in the path between the kitchens and the birthing chamber, Arthur removed himself to the small, private chapel. In there, on her knees in prayer, was Lady Mary. He closed the door behind him; the click of the lock sliding into place jolted Mary from her prayers and she whirled around to face him.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said apologetically. "I just needed to come somewhere quiet."

He'd heard Catherine's screams while he lurked in the passageways outside, and it had jangled his nerves even more. It was like listening to someone being tortured, only worse. He felt that he was responsible for it. To his relief, Mary looked as pleased to see him as he was her,

"You're all right," she said as she approached him up the aisle. "My mother will be all right, too."

"You think so?"

"I know so," replied Mary with a smile.

The chapel was in darkness, but for the moonlight spilling through the stained glass windows that lined the south wall. The pews were picked out in a stained silver lining that shone in the darkness. Together, arm in arm, they paced up to the front, and slid into a seat at each other's side.

"Although, I do not know if you will be all right," added Mary as she turned sideways to look intently at him.

The question caught him off guard. "Me?" he laughed. "Of course I'll be all right."

"You're worried," she insisted. "I can tell. And I think you're worried about more than just the baby."

Arthur could have kicked himself for making it so obvious that even Mary was picking up on it. He knew well that the girl was bright and perceptive, and he made no allowance for it. She even knew what it was all about; but then, he reasoned, she would have known more acutely than most what it was all about.

"The Queen is pregnant now," Mary added. "She will have a boy, and if yours is a boy, it will not matter."

There were one too many 'ifs' in that sentence for Arthur's liking, but he didn't let on.

"Mary, if it is a boy," he said, realising that he was changing the subject slightly. "You must know that you will still be at the centre of your mother's world-" he paused before adding "-and mine." He decided not to speak for Henry.

Mary looked at him; just a hint of a tear in her eye. She seemed lost for a reply. "Even after how I treated you?" she eventually asked, looking down at her lap in shame.

Arthur felt a pang of guilt. "That was my own fault as much as yours," he replied gently. "There is nothing to forgive."

Mary smiled, and Arthur breathed a silent sigh of relief. He was finally beginning to unite his little family, and even had a new addition on the way. Despite the uncertainties they still faced, there was more room for hope. In the spirit of the occasion, he decided not to dwell on the unhappy past. Instead, he remembered Henry's warnings, and decided to probe gently to see if Mary knew what had been going on under his roof.

"Have there been any visitors in my absence?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Doctor Butts came to see mother," she replied. "And some villagers came to give flowers for mother..."

Since word about the pregnancy had leaked out, people had been flocking to their gates. They had interpreted the new arrival as a gift directly from God. Arthur, as the real father, felt almost immaterial to the child's existence. It may as well have all been God's doing.

"Has anyone from Court been by?" he asked, directing her to more specific information.

"Only the Duchess of Norfolk," she said.

Arthur disregarded her. Elizabeth Stafford knew well not to tread any treasonous waters, given her father's fate.

"Oh, and my Cousin," said Mary, suddenly remembering. "Reginald Pole came to bid goodbye to his mother."

Pole had already been to the More before he left, and Arthur had thought nothing of it. But that was before Henry's warnings, and before the Maid of Kent had been stirring the pot against him.

"Thank you, Mary," he said, darkly.

With that, he got up and crossed the room to the altar. He couldn't concentrate long enough on one thing to actually pray, but the pacing helped pass the time. The time he spent worrying exclusively about what was going on in the chambers directly above them.

* * *

><p>It was four in the morning, and Catherine was exhausted. Her rosary was still clasped in her hands, and her sheets were soaked through with sweat and blood as her labour continued. The midwife was coaxing her back into a kneeling position, helping her gear up for the next contraction.<p>

"The baby's head is out," she said, speaking gently despite the seriousness of the situation. She had insisted on absolute calm the whole way through this ordeal. "Just one more push, Your Grace."

Catherine managed to raise her head enough to nod. Speech was something completely beyond her now. Lady Salisbury approached with a damp cloth in hand, and used it to sooth Catherine's brow, cooling her down for the next effort. The midwife poised, ready to catch the child, and Margaret urged her to push.

The pain twisted up her abdomen, but not so badly as before, and Catherine finally knew the worst was over. She gasped with relief, and bore down on herself as forcefully as she could. Pushing through the lingering pain, a wet, solid mass slipped from between her thighs and into the hands of the midwife who bore the child to a bowl of warm water, once the cord was cut.

Catherine collapsed against the wet sheets, and groaned with relief. The pain was washed away, and she could finally relax without fear of the next contraction. The next moment, Catherine heard a sound that she though that she would never hear again. A strong, lusty cry from a healthy baby. It's wavering cry brought Catherine back to her wits, and her maternal instincts took over, replacing her exhaustion.

"What is it?" she managed to pant. "I want my baby!"

She held her arms out towards the child, that was still immersed in the water, still wailing loudly as it kicked it's little arms and legs about. The midwife turned to Catherine and smiled.

"Your Grace has a healthy baby boy."

Catherine wasn't sure whether she had heard right. The words didn't seem to register. Then tears of happiness blurred her sight, and when the baby was placed in her arms, she could barely see him. Margaret had to mop her eyes, as well as her forehead just so she could get her first proper look at her son. And when she did, her heart melted with tenderness. His eyes were blue, and his hair dark, just like his father's. But his complexion was fair, like hers. He was the most beautiful child she had ever seen, even when he was crying.

"Congratulations, Catherine," sobbed Margaret of Salisbury as she threw an arm around Catherine's shoulder. "You deserve it after everything that has happened."

"Oh Margaret," replied Catherine. "None of that matters now; don't you see? I would do it all again, for him."

The two women beamed brightly as the child settled into his mother's arms. Even Margaret had tears shining on her cheeks by the time the baby settled into a sleep.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," she said. "I must go and make sure the Duke is informed. Then I must write an tell Ursula. She will be thrilled to hear the news!"

Catherine made no protest as Margaret bustled excitedly from the room. It was late, she was exhausted, and she wanted to expend what little energy she had left in holding her son, and taking in every little wrinkle and crease in his body. He was the perfection she had sought her whole life.


	19. An Old Friend

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Additional note: I apologise for the slow updates, but over the last few weeks real life work has had to take priority. I hope to be more frequent in updating from now on.

Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen: An Old Friend.<strong>

Arthur thought the end would never come. People had been rushing through the house for hours. Voices raised, feet stamped; all echoing over the wooden floorboards, over which the sound of Catherine's screams were carried to him; distant and muffled. It was a scene from hell. But the end did come. The silence fell suddenly, as if the whole world had frozen in a millisecond. The whole house seemed to hold its breath; until a thin, piercing cry of a baby rent the air, and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. The fight for life had been fought and won.

Then it began again. Arthur didn't have time to register the birth of his own child before he was suddenly caught up in a hive of activity that swept him out of the chapel he'd been praying in, and all the way up to Catherine's chambers. As though he were moving through a dream, he couldn't remember how he got from one place to the next. He seemed to simply materialise there. Then, a baby materialised in his arms, and in that moment, the rest of the world and all its abundant chaos simply melted away.

For the best part of nine months Arthur had been mentally preparing himself for that moment. But all the same, when it finally came he felt as though he had been hit by lightening. The baby was tiny. So tiny that its body fit in the palms of his hands. Small, spindly limbs kicked as the baby explored his new found freedom as best it could. Eyes wide, vivid blue, even in the dull candlelight. A small, rosebud mouth, and skin as soft as velvet. A love so tender, so devastatingly all consuming filled his heart that he thought it could stop beating altogether.

"It's a boy," someone whispered into his ear, before retreating through the door. Arthur didn't look around to see who it was. He was immersed in the sight of his newborn, and confirmation of his gender was just an added bonus at that early stage.

Most of the men he had spoken to freely admitted to tears at first sight of their newborns. But Arthur felt beyond even that. Maybe it was the shock – he had never expected this at his stage of life – or maybe it was simply witnessing the miracle that was their life's creation first hand. He could never articulate it. Not in any language.

Together they sat in the window embrasure, while Catherine slept fitfully, until the dawn broke silently over the eastern hills that surrounded their estates. Arthur titled the baby upwards; showing him his first ever day break, and giving him his first proper view of the world. He opened the window, to let in the sound of the birdsong, but only succeeding in waking Catherine.

"Leave it," she said as he went to close the window again. "Bring him to me."

She winced in pain as she struggled to sit up.

"Here, let me help you-"

"I'm fine," she quickly replied, and held out her arms for their baby.

"He has your eyes," Arthur informed her with a wide smile as he climbed on to the bed, next to her.

For a long moment Catherine said nothing as she held her baby. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if there was regret in her heart. Regret that she didn't do this for Henry while the going was good between them. They would never have known. No one would have questioned anything. But when Catherine looked at him with tears shining in her eyes, he could see no regret.

"Thank you," she said just as the tears slid down her cheeks.

Arthur moved so that his arms were around them both. "I should be thanking you," he said, nuzzling her hair. "What shall we call him? We should send out word to the King as soon as possible."

Although no consensus on a name had been reached; they did decide on one with no royal connotations. Catherine thought for a moment, studying the baby's face intently.

"Owen," she suggested. "After your great-grandfather?"

Their gaze met as they thought it over. Owen Tudor, the second husband of Queen Katherine d'Valois. So entangled were the tendrils of English history that Arthur's paternal great-grandfather – the aforementioned Owen – had been beheaded after a grisly battle by order of his maternal great-grandfather. He never did get the recognition he deserved. Arthur smiled, and leaned over to kiss Catherine's cheek.

"Owen it is," he said.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth, Maid of Kent, rode at the head of her followers with Father Bocking at her side. God had blessed them with the first of the early summer sun for their long journey north, to Norwich. Behind Bocking and she, at least two hundred others followed. It gladdened her heart to see so many rallying to her cause. Now their party entered the Norfolk Broads, and the boatmen had joined them, following through the pretty waterways that cut through the land that led them to their next destination.<p>

She was about to turn to Father Bocking and point the boatmen out, when a distant figure on the horizon caught her eye. The figure was on horseback; shimmering in the heat haze that lingered on the horizon. Dark, and blurred. He made her think of the horsemen of the apocalypse; he made her nervous.

"Edward," she said, her voice tremulous as she pointed to the man. "Who goes there?"

He followed the line of her finger, at the horseman growing larger the nearer he got. "It's but a messenger," he said. "Do not be so nervous; the King won't know we're on the move yet."

To assure her further, Bocking spurred his horse on a little faster, to meet the messenger before he reached their party. Elizabeth watched as they greeted each other with words she could not hear, and dismounted their horses. The exchange was brief, and Bocking was soon on his way back to them, a triumphant smile on his face. Curious, Elizabeth called out to him.

"What news?"

"You were right, Bess," he replied as soon as he got close enough. "Catherine has delivered a son."

She couldn't help but wonder at his surprise. "Of course she has," she replied curtly. "When did it happen?"

"Two days ago. Arthur has gone to London to inform the King in person, though. Don't we need him?"

"Whatever for?" she laughed lightly. "Only once we have scored our great victory will we need Arthur. With the backing of the Emperor and the Pope, the realm will soon be in our possession with Arthur as King whether he wants it or not."

He was about to make some further protestation, but Elizabeth cantered her horse a few feet ahead and whirled around to face her followers. Once she had their attention, she imparted the good news.

"Good people," she called out over the din of the horses and the chatter. "God has spoken, as I predicted, and the barren Queen has delivered a Prince!"

She was prevented from speaking further by a buzz of animated chatter from her followers as they relayed the information to those who trailed at the back. The news applauded and cheered in waves as the message was spread, word of mouth. Elizabeth soaked up the effect the news had her people, and ignored Bocking's restless murmurings about moving on; she was determined to bolster their support.

"The sign I foretold is now a reality; we must act!" she called out as loud as she could. "We have proof of God's blessing."

The message was received clearly, if the eruption of cheers was anything to go by. Satisfied that her people were still with her, Elizabeth set a new pace. It was getting warmer as the day wore on, and she knew the heat could trigger one of her fits. Fits she was seeking to control, now. Especially with events over-taking them.

By sundown, messengers had been sent on ahead to announce their arrival to their friends with the city of Norwich. By dusk, they were through the gates personally. They had planned to pass themselves off as market traders from Kent; avoiding the suspicion of the city officials. But to Elizabeth and Bocking's intense relief, no one was asking too many questions, and there travelling party rode through the gates with ease.

The city was a small one. A splendid Cathedral, a large sprawling market place (that had wound down its trade for the night), and a few taverns from which the sound of drunken singing already emanated. Elizabeth ducked her head down and crossed herself as they passed a motley group of prostitutes who harried the retreating traders for business. The traders would have purses full of coin after a day's brisk trade, and this was the women's rush hour. Just beyond the market was where their two hosts were already waiting for them. As Elizabeth was helped down from her mount, the more senior of the two stepped forwards to introduce himself.

"My Lady," he addressed her, uncertainly. "I am Brother Cuthbert, and this -" he gestured to the taller, leaner and younger man at his side "-is Brother Sansom. Our Monastery has had the dubious honour of two Royal visitations in the last year or so."

"Why has the King singled you out?" asked Bocking as he stepped in front of Elizabeth. "If you're buggering the alter boys, then there's no place for you here-"

Brother Cuthbert was aghast. "Of course not!" he protested.

Bocking looked like he was about to probe further, until Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm. She was touched by how protective of her he was, but she had a feeling these men could help them. They needed them.

"Edward," she spoke soothingly. "Let's hear his story."

Bocking looked doubtful, but nodded to Brother Cuthbert to continue his story, anyway.

"About two years ago now an Artisan called at my monastery, nearby," he began to explain. "His was an illuminator of manuscripts, and he was looking to speak with our Prior about a job, which he got. I remember, because it was when the King was seeking his annulment, and we talked about it at length. Then, when he discovered that the Queen was to go on trial in public, he took off without so much as a by-your-leave."

Both Elizabeth and Bocking looked quizzically at the man, as though he'd presented them with a puzzle to which some pieces were missing. After a loaded pause, Edward eventually prompted him further.

"And..," he gave a shrug of his shoulders.

"Don't you see?" asked Cuthbert, looking from one blank face to the other. "A few days later the Queen's trial was called off, as Arthur had miraculously reappeared from the dead. Then, a few weeks after Queen Anne's Coronation, we got a visitor from the Palace. Our Artisan friend was Arthur himself, and he had informed the King of his time at our Monastery, and they came to collect some of his things."

"He speaks the truth," said Brother Sansom; joining the conversation without invitation. "It was he who informed the King of our coining operation, too. That's what they were really checking up on-"

"But we don't know who informed on us, for sure," Brother Cuthbert corrected him pointedly. "The fact is, Arthur is an old friend of ours."

Elizabeth was guardedly pleased. "Your Monastery has been suppressed, then?" she asked, stepping around Bocking as she did so.

"Yes, my lady," replied Cuthbert. "And if Arthur were made King, I am sure we'd get all of our land, possession, and properties restored to us. That is why we're coming here. To pledge our allegiance to you, and help in your endeavours in any way we can."

Everyone had something to gain from this; Elizabeth was aware of that. People may write her off as stupid or simple, but she was far from it, and it was other people's gross under-estimation of her that had allowed her to come so far. So regardless of ulterior motives, she was jubilant at the added support. She smiled, and graciously offered her hand to Brother Cuthbert.

"Tonight's session will be held in what remains of your Monastery, Brother," she explained. "Rally your men and supporters, and I will commune with God to deliver their instructions. Please, lead the way."

With growing backing from churchmen, and anticipated support from the Pope and the Emperor; Elizabeth knew they were in for a smooth victory. One that she knew she could help inspire through her shows. All she had to do was harness the unrest of the people.

* * *

><p>Queen Anne waited until her sister had left the royal chambers before she crossed the room to look out of the window. She looked down into the gardens where the Courtiers soaked up the first rays of summer sun, and chatted lightly about the affairs of state; all well out of her earshot. She had promised to rest. Her belly was getting bigger now, and it tired her out in the warm afternoons. But she couldn't rest; not until she'd seen Henry.<p>

Her gaze leapt from one face to another. She didn't linger long enough to register who the person actually was; she only knew that it wasn't her husband. With a frustrated sigh she gave up and ordered Jane Seymour to fetch her another glass of wine. While the Lady fussed over the drink, Anne settled herself back into the nearest chair.

"Where did you say they had gone?" asked Anne as she took the glass from Jane's hand.

Jane's wan face flushed pale pink for a moment. She always seemed to flinch when Anne spoke to her, and it irritated her no end.

"I did not hear that, Your Grace," replied Jane, not quite meeting the Queen's eye. "Just that His Majesty had taken Lady Madge Shelton out somewhere."

Anne's mind reeled. She could have George dream up some pretext to having the whore sent from Court. But then, Anne reasoned, she would only be swapped over for some other doe-eyed, hopeless case. The more she dwelt on it, the more restless she became. The wine already forgotten about; Anne got back to her feet and began pacing the floor.

"Did they take the horses?" she asked; snappish now.

Jane was retreating towards the door, and paused only regretfully. "Yes," she replied. "I think that they did. They were both heading in the direction of the stables."

"Where they holding hands?"

"I don't know, Your Grace," answered Jane, in a panic now. "All I am telling you is what the Groom, Francis Weston, told me." It was evident in her tone that she was bitterly regretting doing even that much. But Anne needed the truth. It was the uncertainties that drove her beyond distraction.

Anne fell into an awkward silence as she once again scanned the grounds of the Palace beneath her window. She hadn't seen Henry since that morning. He had been distant with her, and he was never distant with her in the mornings. He was most out of character, and she knew the signs.

"Despite my condition," she said, not looking at Jane but still addressing her. "I try to make myself pleasing to him. I always try my best."

"Your Grace," said Jane. Her tone was that of someone desperate to say anything just to make the embarrassment stop. "His Majesty will be back soon; I am certain of it."

There was little by way of reassurance in her words, but Anne deliberately slumped her shoulders and closed her eyes to relax. After a few deep, steadying breaths, she sat back down again. All this worry was no good for her or the baby, and the baby was all that mattered now. She blinked away the unshed tears that still clouded her eye, and turned in her seat to face Jane.

"Any word on Catherine's child?" she asked, unsure whether she even wanted the answer.

"None yet, Your Grace," replied Jane.

"Thank you, you may leave me in peace now," Anne stated flatly.

Once she was alone; her women all waiting in the ante-chamber, she levered herself down onto the bed. But even with that much breathing space, the doubts and uncertainties came out to play in her mind. Catherine's child, Henry's women, her enemies circling the sky above her. It all seemed magnified under the looking glass of the Court.

Inside her belly, as though detecting her stormy thoughts, the baby gave a kick and a roll. Anne gasped, sitting bolt upright in shock, and clutched at her belly. Then came the relief. This baby had been late to quicken, and the jolt had knocked some sense back into her head. With that in her belly, Anne knew that Henry could take as many mistresses as he pleased; it was to her bed he always returned, and she was his Queen, no one else. It was a thought so comforting to her that she finally drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

><p>Arthur thought that he would petrify if he had to endure another barge ride all the way to Hampton Court. The weather was too nice; his mood too buoyant to simply sit around in a narrow boat and drift across the country. So, he disembarked at the first harbour in Surrey, and helped himself to a post horse for the rest of the ride to Hampton Court. It added another two hours to the journey before he saw the familiar red brick palace looming over the horizon. But the ride was what he needed to clear his head after two sleepless nights with baby Owen keeping him on his toes until dawn.<p>

But soon enough he was dismounting in the King's stables. As he threw the reins over to Nicholas Carew – Henry's Master of Horse – the King's familiar voice sounded from outside, delivering instructions for a herbal remedy for something or another.

"And remember, Lady Shelton, pluck the flower at the root. It is essential that we get the root," he was saying. "The Queen isn't sleeping, and I am certain that this will help."

Arthur exchanged a glance with Carew. "Doesn't sound good," he remarked drily.

Carew smirked as Arthur stepped around him, and out into the Courtyard. Henry was standing with a young woman who Arthur recognised as one of Queen Anne's ladies. Young, and full figured, she had her back to him but he could see that she was being sent out on a gardening mission. Secateurs were in her right hand, and in her left were painted pictures of the flowers she needed. She turned to look at him, making Henry pause mid-flow and look up to see what had diverted her attention.

"Arthur!" he called out as he recognised him.

Arthur bowed; a gesture that Henry enthusiastically waved away. "No ceremony, brother!"

"Your Grace, forgive the interruption," said Arthur, looking lady Shelton up and down. "I need to see you."

Henry reached out and wrung Arthur's hand. "You're interrupting nothing," he assured him. "Meet Lady Shelton-" he gestured to the woman, who immediately dipped into a curtsey "- she is just running an errand for the Queen and I. We're finished here."

While Henry called out to Carew to fetch a horse for the Lady, Margaret and Arthur exchanged polite pleasantries. But as soon as she was saddled and off, Arthur turned straight to business.

"Is Anne all right?" he asked, brow furrowed. Anne's problems were usually Henry's too, and it could make their meeting even more awkward.

"Oh, you know how she is," answered Henry, giving a flippant wave of his hand. "She gets restless and agitated, and she doesn't sleep well. This remedy I have in mind will help; I am certain of it. Now, let's walk."

The even was settling in around the Palace as they both strolled along the edge of the hunting woods. But for that day the game and boar would be safe from their bows and arrows. Arthur and Henry were content to point them out to each other, and watch as they lithely darted from tree to tree, or back among the undergrowth.

Once they were out of earshot, Arthur finally felt free to inform the King of the birth of his nephew.

"Its a boy, Henry," he stated. It was difficult for Arthur. He wanted to shout the news from the leads of the Palace roof. He wanted to bellow it out while dancing naked among the tulips; he was so ebulliently happy to be a father for the first time. But there was that albatross of their own personal history always weighing him down. Then, to his surprise, Henry threw back his head and laughed out loud. "Henry?"

"Why do you sound so apologetic?" asked Henry, once he had composed himself again.

Arthur could think of a hundred complications; even some possible regret on Henry's behalf. Sometimes, he wondered if he worried too much. "Well, it could have gone badly," he vaguely explained.

"Is Catherine well?" he asked. "You're her lawful husband, and it's natural that she would have provided you with a healthy son."

Of course, thought Arthur with a smile. They are no longer being punished by God, and this is the first sign of hard evidence that the King's marriage to Anne is truly lawful. It being logical that she would now deliver a son, also. Arthur couldn't help be a puddle of relief at his brother's dexterity. All potential problems massaged into something desirability for him.

"I didn't think of it that way," he confessed with a laugh. "But still, do you foresee problems?"

Henry thought for a second, his expression clouded. "Only from that silly Barton girl," he said. "I don't suppose you yet know where she is getting her information from?"

The birth of the baby had put paid to any investigations within his household, and his expression must have said as much.

"Never mind that now," said Henry. "What have you named him?"

"Owen," replied Arthur.

Henry repeated the name with a sigh. "You must bring him to see us as soon as possible," he said, throwing his arm around Arthur's shoulders. Although the younger of the brothers, Henry had always towered over Arthur. "I don't see any reason on this earth as why he should not be Christened here."

Arthur started at Henry's sudden enthusiasm. "We're planning a small ceremony, Henry. Just family," he explained, deflecting any major ceremonials. "The Queen and yourself are both welcome, but please Harry. No major events, no jousts, no street processions. Just a small, intimate family event for us."

He was aware that his family thought being alone was when you only had twenty people in the room with you, but he was determined to drill the real meaning into Henry's head. But, from his brother's next words, he knew he was on to a loser.

"I understand all that intimacy stuff, I really do," said Henry. "But, the boy still needs an earldom, Arthur. How does Southampton sound?"

The residual tension in Arthur's chest eased away, and he grinned boyishly at his brother. "That the best you can do?" he retorted, the two of them laughing as they steered each other back towards the Palace. The night was settling in, and they had a baby's head to wet.

* * *

><p>Anne leaned back in her chair as Mary eased the brush through her hair. Her scalp tingled; the sensation soothing, rather than irritating or painful. She shut her eyes, and sipped at the warmed wine in her hands. She didn't think she would have any trouble sleeping that night, but Henry had insisted that she take the medicine, too. She didn't want to disappoint him after all the trouble he had gone to.<p>

"Where is Lady Jane?" asked Anne, suddenly taking a look around. "Still preparing that sleeping draught for me?"

"I think so, Sister," replied Mary.

"Still avoiding me, more like," snorted Anne. "She lied, Mary. I am sure of it."

Mary paused, and shushed her. A gesture that made Anne's annoyance prickle. "I am fine, and I am not getting worked up!" she snapped.

"So I see!" laughed Mary.

Anne turned in her seat and glared at her. But, the sight of her face, calm and unconcerned, made her anger only a momentary thing. But, she still couldn't shake her darkening feelings.

"Mary," she spoke low. "She told me that Francis Weston told her that Henry had gone sneaking off into the stables with Lady Shelton. He was with his brother all along. Now they're celebrating the birth of the baby. It was all perfectly innocent."

Mary mulled it over for a second, trying to make head and tail of who told who what, and when. "She was just repeating gossip, Anne. You know what this place is like."

"But I spoke to Francis," added Anne. "He didn't tell her a thing. He doesn't even know who she is. She fed me lies knowing I would get upset."

Mary set down her hairbrush, and moved to kneel in front of Anne. She clasped her hands. "Anne, please," she implored her. "Just pay no heed to her, and if she does it again, dismiss her. You have no proof that she acted maliciously, and you admit that you did ask her for any rumours she had heard. You invited it."

Anne averted her gaze. "I know," she sighed. "I knew I shouldn't have done. I just wanted to know where Henry had got to. That was all." She hated having to justify herself, but she felt foolish now. When Jane returned to the chamber bearing the sleeping draught, Anne couldn't even find it within her to raise the issue again.

She got her night shift on, and gratefully climbed into bed. Before she lay down, though, she took a tentative sniff at the draught in the pewter goblet. It smelled of burdock and camomile. Soothing, and smooth, but it tasted foul. Mary was on hand with a shot of wine to wash it down.

"Thanks, Mary," said Anne, between wincing through the bitter taste. "That was foul!"

But, it worked. Anne lay back against the feather bed, and felt herself melting into the rich fabrics. Effortlessly, she slipped into a deep, luxurious sleep. A sleep she was jerked out of by a tearing pain in her belly that knocked the breath out of her lungs; dragging her back to reality in a trice. Her head was spinning, and her stomach churning so much that she was sick over the side of her bed.

The pain began to subside, and she wiped her mouth on the bed sheet. But even as she lay back down, another wave of pain crashed over her.

"Mary!" she cried out in panic.

Tear blinded her now. She struggled to get up, but her legs were tangled in the sheets. She kicked out violently, and jerked herself to the left; crashing out of the bed to the floor as she did so. Another spasm of pain, and now the blood oozed effortlessly from within her. It was soaking through her shift, running down her thighs; glittering ominously in the moonlight that lit the room. Anne felt her heart stop, and the cry of terror froze on her lips as she watched her baby slip lifelessly into the world.

It was over before Mary, Jane, and Madge even made it, bleary eyed and terrified, into her chambers. All three crashed to a halt at the sight of her, prone on the floor covered in her own blood.

"The baby!" Anne screamed at them. "My baby!"

"Get the doctor!" cried Madge, and Jane faltered before running from the chambers screaming for a doctor.

Anne fell back against the floor boards, a different kind of unconsciousness stealing her away now.


	20. Coping Just

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty: Coping; Just.<strong>

Pope Clement was seized in the grip of a fit of indecision. The despatches all said the same thing, but the advice he was been given fell on him from all directions. As these pearls of wisdom came they masked a flurry of self-interest, ulterior motives, and old rivalries. Now, he sat and studied the face of each Cardinal, reading between the lines of their furred words, and remunerated the arguments out loud. Once more. For the sake of clarity.

"The King of England persists in his obstinacy," he speaks into his over-long, grey beard. "The Queen of England has miscarried her Prince. But the former Queen has delivered a healthy heir, male, and to King Henry's elder brother; who's claim to the throne of England is stronger than anybody else's."

"Remember, this insurrection in England is well under way, according to our sources," pointed out one of the Cardinals. "All you have to do is give the rebels your Papal blessing, and the rest of the country will flock to their sides."

"Grant the people of England absolution for all their sins in return for joining the revolt," suggested another.

On the surface, it all seemed so simple. Root out the canker of King Henry, and replace him with his brother; the brother who just so happened to be married to Aunt of the Holy Roman Emperor. If they assisted with the rebellion, and made Catherine Queen once more, the Damocles Sword of the Empire would be lifted from them for ever more. But the coin would flip, and the other side would come glinting in to view.

"Do you really want to assist the family of the man who held you prisoner?" asked one of the others. "We have lucrative trade deals with the English. Why upset the apple cart even further?"

Clement sighed deeply. So many pros weighed up against just as many cons. If there was one thing the English loved; that was a damn good fight. Even if he backed the rebels, who is to say they would win? Henry, he believed, could take to the field armed with a toothpick and win. To block out the storms, he turned his mind to the frescoes, and resolved to find a way to appease everyone; to be all things to all men. Offer something to both sides, and bring them all around to his way of thinking.

* * *

><p>The baby was gone. She felt as though, when exiting, the child took with it something of her. Like a vital piece of her was dislodged, and carried away with the tide of fluids and waste. Anne couldn't put her finger on what it was, and she couldn't say whether she would ever get it back again. So, she simply stopped thinking about it. She returned to her duties with an alacrity that raised the eyebrows of her sister, and drew dark looks that shot between her father and brother. Anne affected not to see them. Everything was normal; everything would be right in the end.<p>

She swept through the chambers with an exaggerated air of sprightliness. She wanted to radiate the message that all was business as usual in her world, and it would take more than an act of God to upset her. This hadn't affected her. To prove her point, she helped light a fire; something she had never done in her life.

"Anne, what are doing?" asked Mary as she approached her sister cautiously.

"What does it look like I'm doing," replied Anne, a smile on her face as she gingerly lifted a log of wood from a hearth bucket.

Mary registered the forced lightness of her voice; noted how she didn't seem to know what to do with the wood. Her worry increased. "Why don't you have a nice lie down-"

Anne cut her off. "I'll lie down when I am tired. Right now, I am as well as any woman."

Mary's expression darkened as Anne finally stopped trying to do the servant's work, and got back to her feet. These outer-chambers were deserted now. It was Anne and Mary alone. Everyone else staying away; through fear or shame of having no words to say, Anne couldn't be sure. She was about to try and reassure her sister, when Lady Jane Seymour edged around the door from inside the Queen's Apartments. Both Anne and Mary turned sharply; fixing her with a curious look.

"Your Grace," said Jane, dipping a low curtsey.

"Lady Jane?" came Anne's brisk reply.

Her presence among them unsettled her now. Anne couldn't help think of the medicinal drink that Jane had prepared on the night of the miscarriage. She couldn't prove a thing, and it was something Henry had taken a hundred times or more when the pressures of state bore him down. No proof; just fear and suspicion.

Jane raised herself up, and Anne spotted the rolled up parchment clutched in her thin white hands. "I have come to ask your majesty's leave-"

"Granted," replied Anne, relieved that the girl was leaving Court at last. "You may leave instantly."

Jane looked from Anne to Mary, and back again; her jaw hanging open as though she hadn't quite caught what the Queen had said. But, she quickly gathered herself, and hitching her skirts above her ankles, began to back away before Anne could change her mind. Mary watched her leave apprehensively.

"Should you not have at least asked her why she wants to leave Court?" she asked as she turned back to Anne.

"I don't know; I don't care," replied Anne. "All that matters is that she is gone."

Mary looked back at Anne doubtfully, but evidently decided to keep her own counsel. She reached out, and placed a hand gently on the Anne's arm. "Anne," she said low, imploringly. "Please come back inside and sit down."

Anne swallowed hard. "I can't, Mary. There is so much to do-"

"Like what?"

"Like, papers to sign and despatches to read, and plans …" for a moment, Anne trailed off as she struggled to remember, or invent, the things she was meant to be doing. "You know what I mean, Mary. So much to do. People to see … Dead babies to mourn."

The edifice crumbled. One loose brick in a defensive wall led to another, and before Anne knew it she was in her sister's arms, sobbing heavily into her shoulder. There was no stopping it. Like a river bursting its banks, a raw, cold grief submerged her as her wept and cried for her lost child. Her precious child that taken a piece of her to its unmarked grave.

* * *

><p>"Henry, this is not a good idea."<p>

Arthur's words, like all others he'd spoken since the Queen's miscarriage, continued falling on deaf ears. He stood at a distance from his brother and watched from the sidelines, as though entranced by some terrible, bloody accident, as Henry donned his finest clothes. Cloth of gold, great chains of state, jewels who's value could sink the economy of a small nation, all adorned the King's person. The stones glittered their opulence in the in broad afternoon sunshine that filled the King's Privy Chamber. Henry, oblivious to his brother, arranged a cap on his head, and teased the great ostrich feather at a jaunty angle. He stopped to check himself in the mirror, before ordering a groom to brush down his doublet.

Arthur, unable to stay silent, tried again: "Henry, please, Catherine and I will not be offended-"

Henry suddenly whirled around to face Arthur, silencing him immediately.

"I have a nephew, Arthur," he curtly pointed out. "We have a new family member to welcome to the Christian fold. I am his Godfather, and I wish to hold him at the font while the Archbishop baptises him as such. I want to be there, and you will not stop me."

But you have a baby to mourn, and a Queen to console. Arthur wanted to tell him that, but he knew he was skating on the thinnest part of the ice already. He could see the pain in Henry's eyes. A pain so personal he couldn't let it out. It was his, and only he could understand it. Arthur knew all that. But he knew, also, that there were ways to soften the blow. Attending Baptisms only days after losing your own child was not generally one of them. But, he also knew when to stop pressing Henry.

"We would, of course, be delighted to have you in attendance at Owen's Baptism," he replied, trying to strike a conciliatory path. "It would mean the world to us. But, I just thought, given the circumstances, that you may want ..."

Arthur trailed off again as he tried to speak his mind without lecturing the King on how to be a good husband. Not because he genuinely believed Henry to be acting out of malice towards Anne, but because he himself didn't have a great marital track record. He'd abandoned his own wife, making her believe him to be dead, for nigh on twenty-eight years. He had no right at all to reprove Henry's actions. But as he was about to give up, he remembered something.

"Henry, do you remember when you came to see me at the More? Not long after I came back? Do you remember what you said to me? You said that I had to be at Catherine's side; that I had to be with her to put things right?"

Henry, Arthur knew, remembered that talk as clear as day. It was why he was too shame faced to answer Arthur now. He pressed his advantage.

"Well, don't you think you need to be there for Anne now? She needs you, and I think that you need her just as much."

He felt a weight shift in his chest as he spoke. Finally, he'd said what needed to be said, and Henry seemed to be listening. He watched as Henry stopped fussing over his clothing, and sank into a chair at the head of a long, mahogany table, and dropped his head into his hands. He kneaded at his temples, and sighed deeply.

"I know that, Arthur," he said, resignedly. "I will make things right; I promise you. But let me do this. Let me clear my head, and expunge my own grief before taking on Anne's too. You forget how many times this has happened to me."

There was no anger or blame in Henry's voice, but it still made Arthur lower his head in shame. He hadn't forgotten; he just hadn't appreciated that this was the eighth baby that Henry had lost. He couldn't think what it must be like. Especially now that he had a living child of his own, and he knew what it felt like to hold a newborn in your arms, and breathe in that rich scent.

"I'm sorry, Henry," he said as he moved to sit opposite his brother at the other end of the table. "I wasn't thinking."

Henry waved his apologies away. "I have visited Anne, so don't worry," he explained. "And I shall send tokens of my love for her before we depart. But I must do this, as well."

It was a compromise, and Arthur let the matter drop. They set off for the Royal barge; walking side by side, almost like equals, across the lawns with Henry's household staff trailing behind at a more discreet distance. The air was thick with the promise of summer, and even the waters of the Thames bubbled clear as they sailed upriver to Northamptonshire. Crowds waved to them as they passed, but Henry could only manage a perfunctory wave in return; a forced smile added if he felt inclined. Arthur glanced over them all with relief. At least here, the people were still firmly with the King.

* * *

><p>The messenger rode through the gates of Norwich without pause. Some street stragglers found themselves darting for cover, lest they be charged down where they walked. But the rider still did not slow down. He rode on through the market, not stopping to ply trade, nor browse the markets. That was usually why strangers arrived in the City. But, as he reached the open countryside just beyond the square, he finally came to a halt where a woman seemed to be waiting for him. An exchange. Money and a folded scrap of paper changed hands, and the two part company with barely a word in each other's ear.<p>

The rider returns the way he came, but the woman runs to the nearby abbey. She knew the messenger was from the Exeters, who were in touch with the Poles, who had contacts at Court. She was the final link in the chain of communication, and whatever it was that was happening, the whole of her party needed to be informed.

She found Elizabeth Barton mercifully conscious, and talking to Father Bocking. The two of them often conferred quietly together, away from the others. Often, they took the traveller's lodgings in the yard, despite them being so meagre in comfort. Especially now that thay had been given a Papal Blessing for their enterprise.

"Elizabeth," the woman greeted her. "For yourself and Father Bocking."

Elizabeth took the scrap of paper, and unfolded it carefully while Bocking leaned forwards and looked over her shoulder. The two of them read with an obvious relish.

"This is it," stated Elizabeth as she got to her feet. "This God's final sign. What else could it mean?"

Slowly, the others in the room had gathered round her. Bocking slipped outside, and returned minutes later with others, all crowding around. The two monks, Sansom and Cuthbert, also edged into a the corners, waiting expectantly to hear the news.

"The pretended Queen -" she had taken to referring to Anne Boleyn as such "- has miscarried the pretended King's son. Lady Exeter's source in the Queen's household has confirmed this as the truth."

"Then it is time to attack?" asked Cuthbert, elbowing his way past a few of the land men who'd followed Bocking inside. "It's finally time to remove the heretics?"

Elizabeth waited for the murmur of agreement to fade before answering.

"I shall confirm my suspicions with the angels," she assured them. "But I think it is safe to say that this is God's affirmation of our cause. He is on our side, and we will be victorious."

* * *

><p>Catherine was still tired out from the birth, but she found the strength to feed him from her own breast. It was something that had been denied her as Queen, and something that she had always yearned to do with Mary. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like something God had created her for. It was more than royalty.<p>

Now that she was no longer Queen, there were other rules she was free to break. Her Churching had been a brief and hurried affair, and now she was attending the Christening of one of her own children for the first time. She had even gone so far as to invite some of the ladies who had performed her some service in the past. One of whom arrived by barge, just as she was donning her finest gown in preparation to greet the guests.

"Lady Jane Seymour has arrived," her Chamberlain informed her as she swept outside.

Catherine smiled widely as Jane came into view. "How wonderful to see you," she kissed the girl's cheek, marvelling at how she managed to stay so fair – even with the sun growing so strong. "I didn't think the Queen would let you go."

"The Queen did not even ask where I was going to," replied Jane, bobbing a curtsey. "Have you heard what happened to her?"

Catherine frowned, mentally going over what little Court gossip reached the More. "I don't think so."

Jane steered her former mistress over to a quiet corner of the Solar, somewhere even the servants wouldn't hear them.

"She miscarried her child," whispered Jane, directly into Catherine's ear. "I was there when it happened. She woke up in the night, and it was over in a trice."

Sometimes, late at nights, and before she reconciled with Arthur; Catherine had wondered how she would react to news like this. She didn't for one moment think that it would actually happen, or even hope for it to happen. Revenge was for the emotionally inept; not for Queens of England. True to form, she was not happy. She wasn't even amused.

"Poor woman," she said, hastily crossing herself. "The poor woman will have to watch her back, now."

She looked at Jane; her expression mild, impassive. "There are some who say she shouldn't be Queen at all," she said softly. "Some who say that God is now punishing Henry for taking a Crown that is not his-"

"Sush!" Catherine hissed, anger flashing in her bright blue eyes, and her heart beat racing. "Madam, I appreciate your friendship, and I am indebted to your family for the love you always showed to me. But your words not only endanger me, and my husband, but my child's. That I will not allow!"

A dull rose flush tainted her pale complexion, and Jane had the decency to avert her gaze. "Forgive me, Madam," she said. "I thought only to relay what others have been saying. You need to be aware."

In the silence that followed, Catherine became dimly aware of the distant sound of a fanfare. More guests arriving; possibly Arthur with his sisters. Surely, Henry would not be coming now that Anne had lost their baby. For now, she had to close this line of conversation before they could both be landed in hot water.

"I am aware, and thank you for your vigilance," she stated with finality. "But, for these few days, let us please just celebrate the birth of my son."

Jane was smiling again. "Yes, Your Grace, may I see him?"

"Of course, and Mary is dying to see you again, also," replied Catherine. "But first, let us go and see who the new guests are. I can hear their musicians."

The two women straightened their gowns and walked, Jane a pace or two behind Catherine, out to the porch where they could watch the barge sail up the river. Instantly, they recognised the Royal Standard. They watched; shocked and not a little disconcerted, to see the King, as well as Arthur, disembark on their private jetty.

Catherine had not seen him for almost two years; not since that final meeting at Richmond Palace. So much had changed, now. So much had happened, that she felt only a fleeting pull at her heart. She loved him still; she always would. But she had Owen, Mary, and Arthur. She had come to realise that being Queen was only a title, and now her life was full. The commiserations she offered to Henry on the loss of the infant were genuine and unfeigned. She had no need for bitterness. Their conversation passed like that of two old friends who had not seen each other for a long time.

Once they were back at the porch of the More, Catherine gestured to Lady Jane, who was now kneeling in supplication before the King.

"Your Grace," said Catherine. "You may already be familiar with my good friend, but may I formally present Lady Jane Seymour to you, any way?"

Henry smiled; a twinkle in his sapphire eyes. His mask of chivalry slipping effortless over his pained, pale face. He looked from Catherine, down to the fair haired girl.

"Lady Jane," he greeted her personally, the words seeming to make her tremble. "Please rise; let me look at you!"

Her hand was tiny in his. Like a child's. Henry seemed to notice it, too, as he raised her to her feet. Arthur joined Catherine, standing at her side and watching the two of them.

"Your Majesty," said Jane, looking Henry directly in the eye. "It is an honour to be presented to such a noble Prince."

Catherine thought that Henry would be gratified by such a show of loyalty, but he seemed almost struck dumb by it. His eyes were unfocussed. Soft, but almost dazed looking, and he was still holding her hand. It was a look Catherine had seen in him too many times before. She gave a brisk clap of her hands to snap the King out of it.

"Well," she exclaimed brightly. "Let's all get inside, shall we? The Exeters and the Bryans will be here shortly."


	21. Open Season

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One: Open Season.<strong>

The crystal water caught the light as it trickled between the Bishop's fingers, and landed with an inaudible splash against the baby's forehead. It ran in little rivulets, like tears, through the sparse dark hair, and soaked the soft linen coif on his head. His bright blue eyes snapped wide open at the sudden sensations, but he did not cry. Not until he peered up into the face of his Uncle, King Henry, did he let fly a shrill wail. Inwardly, Arthur flinched against the piercing cry, and beside him, Henry suppressed a laugh. Catherine's smile began to look a little strained, but she kept her gaze fixed on the font. The look in her eye was that of a mother just waiting for the moment the other person accidentally dropped her baby. The Bishop, however, pressed on with the Baptism as though nothing had happened with a mere raise in pitch of his voice as he inducted a new soul into the Christian flock.

Once the ceremony was over, the congregation withdrew to the great hall where the servants had laid out a feast for the guests. Arthur and Catherine occupied the top table alongside Owen's godparents, King Henry and Mary, Duchess of Suffolk; baby Owen cradled in her lap as the guests found their places, and a toast was raised to his long life and good health. While Catherine and Mary lapsed into conversation about babies, Arthur watched Henry from the corner of his eye. Ever since the King had been introduced to Mistress Seymour, he had been behaving oddly. At that moment, Henry was sampling a sliver of fine Venison. Once done, he nodded his approval, and gestured to one of the servants.

"Send this down to Mistress Jane Seymour, and give her my compliments," he said.

At Arthur's side, Catherine fell silent. Momentarily distracted from her conversation with Mary, she turned to watch the servant making off with their best venison. She then shot him a loaded look. A look that said "say something." His stomach dropped; being the King's brother was always going to have its drawbacks.

Arthur cleared his throat. "A pity Her Majesty could not make it," he remarked, trying to sound casual. "But understandable, of course. Tell me, have you thought any more about going on Progress?"

For a moment Arthur thought that Henry hadn't heard him. But, after a thoughtful pause, Henry turned in his seat to face him. "If Anne gives me a son, then the Progress will be back on."

Arthur noted the small change of that oft-spoken sentence. It was now "if" Anne gave him a son, and not "when". Their conversation ground to an awkward halt as Arthur cast around for something suitable to say. Something that would both set the King's mind at ease, without being dismissive of the predicament he found himself in.

"The Princess Elizabeth is thriving," said Arthur, eventually. "Or so Lady Bryan was telling me when I saw her last. She is outgrowing her clothes almost daily."

That did the trick. Henry's face opened in a bright smile. Arthur just hoped he had made the connection between healthy daughters and healthy sons.

"You know, the Princess is already talking," said Henry, making an expansive gesture with his free arm towards the rest of the guests. "She is fierce, Arthur. Fierce. Like her mother!" He laughed heartily.

Arthur felt emboldened by Henry's sudden change of countenance. "Then if Anne can produce such a daughter," he said, "then it's only a matter of time – and effort – before such a son comes along."

For a moment Henry looked almost abashed. "I was simply paying Court to Mistress Seymour," he mumbled into his wine glass as he drained it dry. "I swear, I meant no harm."

Arthur knew better than to push the issue too far, and turned his attention to what his other siblings were up to. Mary was still deep in conversation. But, Margaret had set her knife and fork down, and was now teaching the elderly Earl of Shrewsbury to dance the Volta. The old man looked like he'd just had all his birthdays and new years come at once. Within a few minutes, people were clapping along to the music, egging them on. Henry snorted with hastily suppressed laughter, and the tension drained away as they all succumbed to the first of three days of celebrations.

* * *

><p>Princess Elizabeth recognised her straight away. Even from her lofty perch in the arms of Lady Bryan, the first person her eyes alighted on was Queen Anne and immediately her pudgy arms were held out towards her. It was enough to finally lift Anne's spirits. She swooped across the floor of the Privy Chamber in a flash of heavy damask skirts that swept the flagstones as she went.<p>

"Elizabeth!" cooed Anne as she settled the child in her arms. "My own heart, how I missed you."

The sound of the Princess's voice filled the air; an exalted shriek of laughter as Anne rained kisses down on the her reddening curls. Elizabeth had her own establishment, as befitting a Princess. But protocol and a sense of propriety didn't necessarily make mother and daughter's separation any easier to bear. Added to that, Anne became more painfully aware of all that she was missing every time she and Elizabeth were re-united. The baby was a baby no more. She was speaking small, monosyllabic words. She was beginning to stand. She was developing a little personality. All of it away from the gaze of her parents; all mile stones reported back, second hand, like old news.

"Does the Princess continue to feed well, Lady Bryan?" asked Anne, as though the weight of the girl didn't already answer the question for her.

Lady Bryan smiled indulgently. "Constantly, Your Majesty," she replied. "She progresses magnificently, as one would expect and more."

Anne was satisfied of the Princess's progress, and wanted to waste no more precious time with her there. She balanced Elizabeth carefully on her hip, and strode over to the connecting gallery that led to the Queen's Apartments where they could be alone together, with just a few servants to wait on them. But as she was about to vacate the outer chamber, Lady Bryan cleared her throat, and addressed her formally.

"Your Majesty," she said, stepping closer to Anne. "If I could have a moment of your time."

"What is it, Lady Bryan?" Anne asked in reply.

A look of worry deepened the lines in Bryan's face. "Madam, there is a crowd at the gates of the Palace. A strange crowd."

"Are they looking for alms?" asked Anne, the first and most obvious explanation that came to her mind. "I could send to the kitchens and see them provided for." Her eye darted to the window, but her view was that of the Queen's Privy Gardens, not the front gates where the paupers gathered for their alms and royal blessings.

"I know not, Madam. But may I be so bold as to suggest the guards are sent out to investigate. While I was bringing in the Princess I thought some had tried to obstruct us. One looked through the window, saw that it was just an ageing woman and infant, and waved us through."

Instinctively Anne tightened her hold on Elizabeth, and clutched her a little closer as she nodded to her sister. "Mary, go and ask my Chamberlain to send out the guards and report back to me," she turned back to Lady Bryan. "You already have your lodgings prepared, Lady Bryan. Stay at least until the crowds are dispersed, and venture abroad tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, bobbing a curtsey to the Queen as she left.

A pensive silence had folded over the women as they entered the Queen's Privy Apartments. Anne could sense them exchanging dark looks behind her back. Even Elizabeth piped down, and lay herself flat against her mother's breast. Anne stroked her hair, cooing and shushing to soothe her. Once inside, she felt a little safer, but not enough. She glanced around for Mary, but she was still not back from delivering her message to the Chamberlain. Lady Rochford, however, was hovering in the archway between Privy and outer apartments.

"Jane, go out to the front gate for me and see if you can find out what's going on," she said. "Try and find out how many there are. Then send for Lord Rochford, I need him."

Jane curtseyed, and backed away. That left Anne alone with Elizabeth, with Lady Mary Howard in attendance. Her own guards were still stationed outside all doors to and from the Royal Apartments, but she still felt exposed. She looked again out beyond the windows. Dusk had fallen some time ago, and the sky had grown dark. Had they come because they knew the King was away from London? She remembered the Royal Standards being lowered to half-mast, signalling that the King was absent from the Palace. If the people had heard of her miscarriage, they would know that she, Anne, had been left behind to recuperate. Anne tried to dismiss it. She tried to rationalise and explain it, but a lead weight had settled in her stomach. I felt like dread.

* * *

><p>It was nightfall by the time they made it to Leeds Castle, in Kent. Elizabeth Barton was no longer riding at the head of her army now, though. Their plans had been stepped up a notch, and it was the turn of the fighting men to take the helm. But still, she was considered to be deep enough in the army to warrant her own breast plate; just like Joan d'Arc. It was uncomfortable, but it made her feel like her Crusade against Heresy was a real one, and not just something she had been dreaming and prophesying about.<p>

All around her her army rode sturdy chestnut horses. Hers, however, was a large palfrey; brilliant white, it's mane shone in the moonlight. At her side, as always, was Edward Bocking. He had been the one constant throughout her whole journey. He had found her, saved her, and made her into something special. She glanced to her right, where she could make out his profile by the light of the full moon, and smiled to herself.

"Is there any word from London, yet?" she asked. "They should be at the Palace, by now."

"None, Bess," he replied. "But don't fret. We know that the King is away from Court, and our people have things under control. Remember our source?"

Elizabeth turned her face away and nodded. The Source. How could she ever forget the source.

"What about these people?" she asked with a nod towards Leeds Castle. "Do you think they'll put up much resistance?" She had wanted to be at Pontefract Castle, but Edward had deemed it too dangerous. That, too, was being taken by their men.

"I doubt it, the Earl is at the Baptism," Edward explained. "They're all at this Christening. All we have to do is march our men in there and take control. Occupy. Let them know we're in control now. We only surrender once Arthur agrees to be King."

The idea had come from a man who'd fought in King Henry's army in France. In the short space of time that they had, they needed stealth and deception to pull off the perfect insurrection. Parcels of men, fighters from all walks of life, were taking over various strategic Castles up and down the country. Even Hampton Court was coming under siege; the reason Elizabeth was so eager to hear news from London.

Before much longer their army were skirting the walls of the castle Keep. If the constable was away, they would be taking on servants. Elizabeth thought it almost too easy. But a hush descended over the company as they formed up on enemy territory. Weapons were drawn, and horses left behind. The rest of the journey would be made on foot, to the portcullis, to storm the Castle; the first of several all over England. By dawn, the Country would be theirs.

* * *

><p>Henry gave his guards the slip, and stole through the More; his footsteps muffled by velvet slippers. He paused by the doorway of the Great Hall, where inside Arthur sat in vigil on behalf of his infant son, who would be invested with the Earldom of Warwick the following morning. He was probably asleep, anyway. God knows, these vigils were deadly boring, even for the most devout nobility.<p>

Somewhere, deeper in the Castle, a door shut with a sharp snap that carried in the stillness. Henry smiled, and made for the entrance. They were due to meet in the gardens; her idea since the summer was on its way and the air was warm. By the time he was on the front lawns, he could hear her footsteps treading close behind his. He turned to face her. She was pale in the moonlight. Even more pale than normal. She looked like a ghost.

"Your Majesty," she said, sinking to the grass in a deep curtsey.

Henry grinned brightly, "Jane."

He raised her from her curtsey by the hands. "Thank you for coming to meet me," he said, looking her up and down. She was still dressed in her day clothes. Not that he expected her outside, meeting him, in nothing but her shift.

The soft breeze made her hair flutter and fan out around her impossibly small shoulders. It made her look even more like something from the ether. He had seen her countless times around Court, where she was over-shadowed and submerged in a wash of other women. It was only when she was alone, taken on her own merits, that he could see her qualities, and her unique beauty. So quiet, too. Rarely did she speak a word; less still a word out of turn.

Henry reached behind him, to one of Arthur's rose bushes, and plucked a fat blossom from the stem with his knife.

"For you," he said,wrapping a silk handkerchief around it's thorns, and handing it over to her.

She smiled, dropping her gaze from his face to the rose, and lifted it to her nose. She bit back a modest laugh. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said.

"Let me speak frankly with you, Lady Jane," said Henry. "When we return to the Palace, I want nothing more than to pay Court to you. Do I have your permission?"

Jane did not reply immediately. She seemed to be trying to remember something. "I would be the most honoured woman in England, Your Grace," she eventually replied. Almost as an after-thought, she dipped another curtsey; clumsy this time. Henry beamed.

"We should get back indoors before anyone realises I am gone," he said, and planted a soft kiss against her cheek. He almost surprised to find such pale flesh so warm. "All I needed was your answer to my suit. I will speak to you again soon, I promise. Until then, take this as a token of my devotion."

Henry struggled to remove a small gold ring from his finger, and pressed it into Jane's flower free hand. She was about to protest, until Henry stilled her with a kiss. "No arguments," he said as he drew away. "Just accept it, and pray for me."

* * *

><p>The gold ring was cold and heavy in her hands. It was the only thing that kept Jane weighted to the earth as she watched the King melt into the shadows cast by the moon. Her heart was beating, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. All the time she had to keep telling herself that he was a married man. She could not love him. She would not let it happen. And not just because of his marital state.<p>

"He's gone now, Lady Exeter," she said aloud, still looking at the spot where the King had vanished.

From somewhere close to the walls of the Castle, a bush rustled, as though a sudden wind had whipped up. But it was only Gertrude Courtenay revealing herself from her hiding place. Her dark hair looked like a sooty smudge against her skin in the poor light. But her eyes were bright; eager.

"Beguile him all you like, Jane," she said. "But you must realise that this doesn't change anything."

"I think I love him," she whispered; like it was a confession to her Priest.

Gertrude grabbed her wrist, knocking the rose out of her hand as she did so. "You cannot back out now," she hissed low, directly into Jane's ear. "You have been feeding us information from Anne's Chambers from the moment she became Queen-"

"But I don't want to be Queen myself," she protested, fighting to regain control of her arm. "Maybe, if I speak to him -"

"It's too late for that, you fool of a girl! The plan is coming into effect tonight. Thanks to your information Hampton Court will be surrounded already, or did you just forget that?"

Jane felt her whole body tremble. She knew that she was in over her head, and she couldn't even remember how she had got there. The task seemed so simple. Just tell Lady Exeter what the Queen was doing. That was all. But she was caught in a rip-tide, and before she knew it, she was being dragged down into a world of lies, deceit and deception. She felt sick to the stomach when she thought of some of the things she had done. Now, the man she had spent years betraying, was the same man she was falling hopelessly in love with.

Finally, Jane jerked her hand free of Gertrude's pincer like grip. "I understand, Lady Exeter," she spoke through clenched teeth.

* * *

><p>Anne found her path blocked by Thomas Cromwell. His head buried in a sheaf of papers; he hadn't seen her coming. They bounced off each other in a shower of dropped scrolls of parchment.<p>

"Forgive me, Majesty, I didn't see," he spluttered as he scooped up the fallen documents.

Anne waved his apologies away. "Thomas, what is happening out there?" she asked. "Is that mob still building up?"

The look of disappointment in his eyes was clear to see. He was hoping she hadn't been told. "Majesty, please, return to your Chambers and wait for news there," he said, trying for all he was worth to sound reassuring. "The crowd is calm, so no need to panic."

Anne raised a pained smile, and threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat. "You know best, Thomas," she said, retreating back a few steps.

He gave her a bow, and carried on his way; head submerged once again in the documents. She is no fool, and she knows he is as worried as she is. Once Cromwell has vanished around a corner, she headed straight to the entrance of the Palace. The people around her seemed calm. Pensive, but calm. She tried to draw strength from that, but to little effect. When Lady Rochford returned from her errands, she had said that the crowds were steadily swelling, and murmuring hostility. George was out there, trying to find out what they wanted, and so could not come to her Chambers.

So now she was seeing for herself. She paused in the archway that led out onto the forecourt. What few guards were left were now ringing the boundary fence, keeping the mob back. But only just. One chink in their formation, and the whole Palace could be taken. Although she could see clearly in the light of the numerous torches, she could not process it.

Dazed, she moved forwards, getting a closer look. The mobs were ringing the Palace, face to face with guards, staring like dumb animals in a menagerie. But when they saw her, they burst into life. Insults were hurled, and something large and heavy smacked her square in the face. A cabbage had been thrown over the perimeter fence. She collapsed, almost to the grounds, before someone caught her fall.

"Anne, get back inside," George hissed low in her ear. "Please, leave now."

Anne massaged the pain that now throbbed at her temple. But still she could not take it in. She couldn't even find it in her to be angry. She was just confused.

"What is happening?" she asked, feebly resisting his efforts to remove her back indoors. "George, please, tell me!"

"We don't know, Anne," he replied patiently. "But it seems to be some sort of protest. Please, go back inside, and we'll hang the cur who threw that at you. You can come and watch us in the morning, when this is over."

He was trying to make light of the situation; to diffuse the fear. God knows she was used to hostility. But this was on another level. This was an open season of loathing, and it was going to take more than George's feeble jests to make her feel better.

"George, you have to get to the More as soon as possible," she said, "Henry won't know about this. Dress yourself in servant's clothes, and go out through the cellar entrance. Take a plain barge, and waste no time. Henry must get back-"

"I am not leaving you!" he protested hotly, grabbing her by the shoulders.

She shrugged him off easily. "Do it, George!" she commanded. "I am your Queen, and tonight you are my servant. Go."

He looked doubtful, but realised she was actually talking sense. As a compromise, she let herself be led back into the Palace. But from there, she was on her own again. Elizabeth was under guard, and her Ladies were mustering her various kinsmen that were still at the Palace. But already she was resolved that no angry rabble would take her Palace by storm.


	22. Rekindling

**Author's Note:**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Your input is always greatly appreciated. Also, I apologise for the length of time that this update has taken; I've been drawing blanks with this one for a long time. But that stumbling block out of the way, all should be well again. I apologise if the update is a little, er, spotty. I may be taking time just get back into the swing of things.

Anyway, here it is. Please read and review, and let me know what you think. Thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two: Rekindling.<strong>

Nervously, Anne twisted the rings round and round on her fingers as she tried to see through the weak dawn light to what was going on just beyond the gates. The Palace had been coming under siege for hours, and so far no one had stepped forward to explain why. All she could think of was Elizabeth Barton. That girl had been stirring up trouble for months, and Anne felt sure that this was the result. All around her, Ladies cast worried glances up at her, as though silently daring themselves to intrude upon the Queen's private worries, and implore her to rest.

Unable to abide the silent waiting any longer, she turned sharply from the window, and swept out of the Chamber. Her sister, Mary, gathered herself up from the chair in which she was half asleep, and hurried after her through the outer galleries.

"Anne, wait," she called after the Queen. "Where are you going? You heard what the Captain said."

Anne recalled it well, but she made no promises to the man. "These are my people, Mary," she said, glancing over her shoulder but not slowing down as she led the way down the galleries. "If they have a grievance with me, then I am ready and willing to talk it through with them." Up to a point, she silently added.

Mary broke into a run to catch up. "You're making a mistake, sister," she panted. "They're in no mood to talk."

Anne halted abruptly, and whirled around to face Mary where they stood, just outside the Great Hall of the Palace. The main entrance was in touching distance, and then it was only a few feet to where the hostile crowds ringed the perimeter of the Palace, effectively holding them all hostage.

"How am I to earn the respect of my people if I hide away in here like a scared child?" she asked, keeping her tone calm and measured; showing not a trace of the fear she felt. "Go to Elizabeth, and keep her safe for me – in case anything happens. I will have a proper guard with me."

Mary sighed in resignation. "Shall I fetch father?" she asked. "Because there is nothing I can say to talk you out of this."

Anne shook her head. "Just do as I ask," she added, closing in on Mary and placing a hand on her arm for reassurance. "Please, I can take care of myself."

With that, they parted ways. Mary retreated back into the galleries, and Anne proceeded to the entrance where a guard opened the door for her. Outside, the Yeomen, what few she had, were trying to reason with various members of the mob. It was cold, and Anne had neglected to put on a cloak. To keep warm, she hovered by one of the beacons that had been lit at the front entrance to the Palace, waiting until someone finally noticed she was there.

"Your Grace," a breathless guard finally greeted her as he ran up the forecourt. He was dishevelled looking, and had obviously been up all night dealing with the situation.

Anne smiled at him; her regal front slipping effortlessly into place. "Sir, what is happening? My Ladies and I get sore few updates?"

The man briefly glanced over his shoulder, to where the mob was still milling around the gates. "They say they won't leave until the King comes out," he said as turned back to Anne. "They want a stop to the destruction of the Abbeys and Monasteries, they want all those of low blood cast out of the King's Counsel."

Anne rolled her eyes. "Very well," she said. "Take me out to them; I want to speak with the ring-leaders directly."

"Madam!" cried the Yeoman, shocked by her request. "That is too dangerous!"

Anne was already walking forwards, towards the crush of people at the gates. She paused, and looked over her shoulder. "I want to speak with the ring-leaders," she said. "They have grievances, and I want to listen to them."

Play for time, she thought to herself. "I would appreciate your cooperation," she added, frowning at his scepticism. "Round up some of your colleagues, and you can guard me while I deal with these people."

He looked far from convinced, but she was the Queen of England. He couldn't gainsay her, especially in the absence of the King. It could have been a sign of the trouble they were in, but he carried out the orders. Anne, however, had a sense of purpose. She was never one to sit idly by and let matters take care of themselves, Play for time, listen to their grievances, and then let Henry crush them how he wants.

* * *

><p>Arthur yawned expansively, drawing a look of utmost disapproval from his brother, King Henry from across the trestle table they sat at. "What?" he asked, affronted. "I'm exhausted!" he justified. Henry returned to the document he was reading in a mutinous silence.<p>

Both of them had endured a sleepless night in the Great Hall of The More for Owen's vigil. It was protocol, and because of his tender age the infant had been afforded the luxury of sleep while the adults did the hard work for him. Henry, however, took it upon himself to join his brother and nephew.

"This is a sacred duty," Henry reminded Arthur pointedly, still looking at the document. "You should be honoured, not bored."

Arthur groaned inwardly. "What is that?" he asked, nodding to the document, just to change the subject.

Henry lowered it, a blush rising in his face. "My marriage contract," he stated quietly. and averted his gaze again.

Arthur could well guess why Henry had suddenly become interested in that again. "You cannot be serious," he said. "You and Anne belong together!"

"But what if she can't give me a son?"

"You have to lie with her, first," retorted Arthur. "Instead you're here dallying with that Seymour girl and fretting over trifles."

"It isn't that I don't not love Anne any more," said Henry, placing his hands out in front of him.

Arthur frowned. "Is that some sort of riddle?" he asked. "Does that you mean you do love-"

"What I mean is what I said," Henry interjected. "All I am doing is double checking our contract to make sure it's all above board. Now cease and desist in judging me!"

Arthur slumped down in his seat, hands up in a gesture of surrender. Instead, he watched the sunrise beyond the window. Owen was fast asleep in his cradle, and he didn't want to disturb the baby by fussing over him. From the tail of his eye he could still see Henry perusing the contract. There was so much in his head that he didn't dare say aloud. But Arthur's attention was soon distracted by the barge mooring outside his house. Unmarked, it looked as if a stray had simply decided to use his private harbour to dock in, and block in Arthur's numerous guests. He swore under his breath, drawing another glower of disapproval from Henry.

"Don't look at me like that," protested Arthur. "Look at that person out there, blocking my harbour with his barge."

Henry dropped the document onto the table and turned to look out of the window. "That's George Boleyn," he explained in an undertone. "What on earth's he doing here?"

Both of them left the Great Hall, leaving Owen in the care of his unconscious nurse who slept on on a pallet by the hearth. Woken by the commotion that George's arrival had caused among the guards, Catherine too was sweeping down the grand staircase in a heavy cloak.

"What is happening?" she asked, frowning at them both.

Arthur clasped her hand. "We're just finding out," he explained as Henry made straight for the exit.

Once they were outside, George was already running up the driveway to the front door. The Portcullis had been left open for the guards to patrol the river, so access was easy. The man had a look of ill-controlled panic etched in his face.

"Your Grace," he called out to Henry, dispensing with the usual formalities. "The Palace has come under attack. There Queen is trapped inside with the Princess Elizabeth. A siege!"

Henry's body shuddered as he crashed to a halt feet away from where George too stopped. His body seemed to absorb the information like a physical punch to the gut. "What?" he gasped. Incredulous.

George gulped in lungfuls of air, trying to catch his breath. "The Palace is surrounded by people – rebels – Your Grace," he explained again. "That's not all. There are others. Northampton, Doncaster, York, and others have also come under attack. Word is Elizabeth Barton has raised an army and they have mounted a rebellion against Your Grace and the Queen."

Arthur couldn't take his eyes off Henry's face. His expression was a mask of frozen horror and incomprehension. The silence was something terrible as all four of them tried to digest what was happening. Finally, it was Arthur who spoke. He didn't want to know the answer to his question, but he needed to know.

"In who's name have they risen?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He already guessed the answer.

George looked at him for a moment. His expression soft; apologetic. "Yours, Your Grace," he answered.

Again, the silence. No one seemed to have noticed what George had said. Catherine drew herself to her full height, took a sharp breath. "I will raise an army and ride out against the rebels myself," she said. "I will take Northampton, Arthur will come with me."

All eyes turned sharply to her. She had given birth barely a week ago, but she spoke with deadly earnestness. She had, after all, defeated an army before while Henry was in France. Henry finally found his tongue again.

"George, wake the Duke of Suffolk, and send him north to Doncaster," he instructed. "Send someone down to Kenilworth, and get message to the Duke of Norfolk-"

"His wife is here," Catherine interjected. "I will send her to the Duke with a message to go to York with his retainers."

"Excellent," replied Henry, with a small smile.

Catherine hurried off at once, leaving Henry and Arthur alone. The two of them looked at each other in silence for a long moment. The sun was fully up, now. They could finally see each other clearly for the first time.

"Henry," said Arthur. "You don't honestly think that I have anything to do with this?"

Henry cast his gaze down. "Of course not," he said. "But that's not the point, is it? That's not how it works."

Arthur already knew that. Everybody knew that. So long as he lived he was a danger. He stood for a moment, watching as Henry turned away with that sad look dulling his eyes, and started jogging back inside the house. His mouth was dry, and his stomach was churning. He took a deep breath, and told himself to fight, Fight whatever it was that was happening, and prove his worth. It was the only hope he had.

* * *

><p>Henry caught up with George barely an hour after he had arrived at The More. Since learning of the uprising, all he could think of was Anne. Anne trapped in the Palace. Surrounded by her enemies. She could have been strung up from the Palace gates by now for all anyone knew. She could be raped, beaten, or any manner of evil could have come her way. All these thoughts and more made him want to be physically sick.<p>

"Rochford!" he bellowed out to George as they were about to sail back to London. "Where is the Queen exactly?"

"She is safe, as far as I know," he replied as they set off, in the royal barge this time.

As far as I know. That was not the reassurance that Henry was looking for. "How many people were there? An estimate? You must have an idea?"

George shrugged. "I had to get out via the servants entrance," he explained. "It was still dark when I left. But I could see there were enough to completely surround the Palace. Anne has no escape herself. I don't even know how we can get back in because they saw me leaving and closed the gap in the chain."

Henry fumed. "I'll tell you how we'll get back in," he stormed. "I'll cut a bloody path with my bare hands if I must!"

He remembered than that when he was a child he had a nursemaid. This nursemaid once told him that some people don't realise what they have until they lose it. Henry was in no fear for his Kingdom. The Dukes, Catherine – who he always acknowledged as a formidable woman when in charge of troops – and even Arthur, would suppress any dissent. He wasn't even in fear of his own life. He had fought in France and lived. He had been trained to go into battle since the moment he could walk. He once joked that if Arthur had lived, he would have liked to enter the Church, something that seemed to have been taken rather seriously. But Henry was a fighter. It was in his blood. But no. All of his fears, all his doubts, and all of his love was for Anne, and all of his fighting would be to get her back safe in his arms again.

* * *

><p>Anne called for a break in the talks. She had no idea whether the two men before her really were the Generals of the rebel army, fighting for Elizabeth Barton, but they would do. They had brought with them guards of their own, in case Anne's should get any funny ideas about taking them hostage. Anne had expected that. It was natural. But now that the sun was fully in the sky, as far as she was concerned, the gloves were off. It was time to keep the Generals where they were, while her small army engaged the rest in battle beyond the gates.<p>

"Excuse me, Gentlemen," she said with a friendly smile as she rose from her throne up on the dais. "I must attend my daughter, the Princess. Please accept some wine and bread from my servants while you wait."

She smoothed down her skirts, and swept from the Presence Chamber. Thomas Cromwell remained behind, watching over the Generals like a hawk. She knew she could trust him, of all people. Outside, her guard from earlier in the day was waiting, concealed behind a rood screen in an outer chamber.

"Well my friend," she greeted him quietly. "We're not getting very far with these two, and it's full daylight out there."

"Yes, Madam," he replied. "Shall I give the order for the attack?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "I expect you to break through their lines. Don't worry about prisoners, or even too much fighting. Get through their lines and into the City of London. Raise the people in the name of the King. Don't mention my name, just the King's."

Anne knew nothing about battles, defence, or strategy. She was fumbling through the negotiations, going off gut feeling alone. Stalling wherever she could, and trying to outwit opponents who had far knowledge than she did. She was exhausted, drained, and fairly sure she was on a path to destruction. But her alternatives were non-existent. The Yeoman bowed low to her, before disappearing off down the galleries to carry out his orders.

She entered her own apartments, and poured herself a cup of wine. The women were all asleep; even Mary. The silence punctuated by soft snores and the occasional shout outside the grounds. If she looked out of the windows, she could see the army surrounding the Palace. Hostile and swelling. Moving, circulating around the perimeters. She took a deep breath, and sent up a silent prayer for Henry's swift return, before re-entering the negotiations. Talk on one side, and fight up a frenzy on the other. It seemed to cover all bases.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time Henry reached London. They took horses that belonged to the Mayor, and rode at full gallop through the deserted streets. Gaggles of men were arming themselves, and riding towards the Palace; a sight that made Henry's spirits soar. He spotted a lone Yeoman, helping them and rallying more people. His doublet was torn, his nose bloodied and his eye purple. He'd obviously been involved in a fight.<p>

"You there!" Henry called out to him.

The man stopped what he was doing. "Your Grace!" he called back in alarm and bowed deeply.

"Rise," said Henry as he approached, slowing his horse to a walk. "Who sent you here? Was it the Queen?"

"Yes, Your Grace," he replied. "She is negotiating with the rebel leaders while we suppress their troops. That was the plan until you returned."

"Is the Queen safe?" he asked, feeling frantic for her. "Is she under guard?"

The Yeoman smiled. "She is in control of all this," he said. "It was Her Majesty's idea to negotiate and attack while the Generals were distracted. We're almost through with them, now. I can take you there if you want to see?"

"Lead the way," commanded Henry.

When they reached the Palace, it looked as if a riot had been raging all night. The fields and parklands were littered with torn clothes, misplaced shoes, and – to Henry's relief – very few bodies. Whether or dead or just unconscious, Henry could not tell. Arrests were being made, and small skirmishes were taking place at intervals. People were arguing over exactly who was involved, and who was an innocent by-stander caught up in the commotion. Henry groaned as he anticipated dealing with that over the coming weeks.

But, what fighting there had been had obviously been brief, but brutal if the mess was anything to go by. He did not stop, however. With the capital in safe hands, Henry's thoughts were fixed firmly on his Queen. There was no room for anything else as he galloped as fast as he could through the gates of the Palace. He dismounted before the horse could properly stop, and threw the reins to a waiting stable hand.

He found her still in the Presence Chamber, and relief flooded him. Cromwell was with her, as well as a skeleton guard. The two strangers he took to be the Generals mentioned by the Yeomen. Without further ado, he strode inside.

"Cromwell, arrest them," he ordered. "Immediately."

Everyone in the room turned sharply to see him; his arrival having gone unnoticed. Anne's eyes glittered with tears, and even Cromwell sagged as though a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. The Generals looked dumbstruck, as though they had expected Henry's naked battered corpse to be borne through the chambers.

The guards moved in quickly to apprehend them. Shouts and curses filled the air, but only briefly, and they went unheeded, unheard and disregarded by the King and Queen. They only had time for each other.

Henry's vision blurred as he looked Anne up and down. "You all right, then?" he asked.

Anne rose unsteadily to her feet, and gave a nod. "I've been better," she said, her voice shaky.

"Then I'll make it so," he said, closing the gap between them.

They melted into each others arms; kissing each other deeply. Henry held her so tight he thought he wanted to force her right inside him, and never let her go again.

* * *

><p>The skirmishes up and down the country fizzled out. In Northampton, Catherine's army had suppressed the rebellion, and Elizabeth Barton and her handlers had been easily captured. They were on their way to London, to the Tower. In York, the rebellion died a death before Norfolk had even reached the boundaries of the Country. He had been forced to turn his army around, and trudge back home thwarted of the fight he had desperately yearned for. Anne thought that she was reading a letter from a broken hearted maiden; not a General pining for a good fight.<p>

With the gift of hindsight she could see that there was no real danger. Only the appearance of it. But now, night after night, she lay in Henry's arms, in their great tester bed. He held her close, never letting go, even long after their love making had ceased. They spent their days with Princess Elizabeth, and watching the new little things she did each day.

After four days of relative bliss, they once again found themselves in the same bed, sharing the same passions that they suspected had long since died. Anne knew that this haven couldn't last for ever.

"Barton and Bocking are in the Tower," she said, still laying on top of Henry, as if she hadn't the energy to roll off. "Do you think she will talk?"

"We'll make her," said Henry. "But we already know some names."

Anne raised her head, and peered at him quizzically. "Who?"

"Arthur," Henry replied matter of factly. Anne's expression darkened. "Then there are the names that our spies have given us in the past. The Exeters, and the Poles. But they were at the Christening. They cannot have been involved in these rebellions."

With effort, Anne sat up on the bed and looked down at Henry, still stretched out beneath her like a big, satisfied cat. "They must have been involved!" she said. "A damn sight more than Arthur, too."

Henry raised his leaden eye lids. "Oh, he wasn't, I know," he said. "But the rebellion was in his name. This is just going to keep on happening."

Henry fell silent, and Anne lay back down. She was exhausted and spent. Almost aching from another night of them making love passionately to one another. But she was no longer sleepy. She thought of the Exeters getting away scot free, and Arthur being their poor whipping boy simply because his name had been used. She thought of Catherine, her one time adversary. She owed Catherine now, for helping to save their skins.

When Anne looked at Henry again, he was fast asleep. His snores were quiet, soothing rather than irritating. She lay her cheek on his chest, hoping the steady rise and fall would lull her to sleep like a babe in a cradle. Hours seemed to pass before she slowly drifted off, comforted by the thought that she was bound to be pregnant again.


	23. Henry's Last Words

**Author's Note:**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is always gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of the characters, and certainly not the TV Show.

Please read and review, thank you.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three: Henry's Last Words.<strong>

Elizabeth looked around her cell in Newgate Gaol. The walls were cracked, and damp. There was no window, and she could hear the shouts and cries of the other inmates morning, noon, and night. There was no sleep to be had, and even the angels didn't visit her there. She read their signs, and this was where they had led her. She almost laughed at her foolishness for having believed that anyone would want to help her. Perhaps the angels she saw were just devils in disguise, after all?

She sat on the one wooden chair that she had, and prayed for all she was worth. She prayed for mercy, she prayed for strength, and she prayed for the Lord to come down and take her away before King Henry got her first. Then, two weeks after her arrival at Newgate, it seemed her prayers had been answered in the shape of Thomas Cromwell.

She watched him through tired, irritated eyes as he paced the small confines of her cell. "Good day to you, Sir," she greeted him, pathetically grateful for any company. "Have you come to kill me?" There was no bitterness in her voice; just a plaintive curiosity.

Cromwell looked down at her. He was a short, squat man who was carrying a few extra pounds of flesh that came with age and a sedentary life-style. He was plain faced, with a good head of hair under that hat. His eyes were small, grey and penetrating. Not like a demon. Not as she had imagined him to look. Because now he was looking at her sorrowfully as a guard came in with two more chairs. Elizabeth looked at the man, wondering about the second chair. But then another man came in. She did not recognise him, but he wore a Bishop's Vestments.

"Mistress Barton," said Cromwell, gesturing to the Bishop. "This is Thomas Cranmer, and he has come to assist you with your statement."

Cranmer nodded to her. He was more kindly looking than Cromwell, with piercing blue eyes and a scrubby beard. "Pleased to meet you, Mistress." From inside a satchel, Cranmer produced a Bible, and placed it in her hands. "Master Secretary and I require you to swear on this Bible that the testimony you give today will be the truth, and nothing but the truth."

Elizabeth turned the Bible over. It was an old fashioned Latin text that the Holy Father would approve of. A ray of hope died suddenly; if it had been one of their heretical English Bibles, she could have sworn and then lied. Maybe King Henry was turning back from Reform after all? Maybe it was a ploy to get her to swear? She couldn't afford to care any more. She placed her right hand on the smooth leather jacket of the book, and repeated the words faithfully.

The two men took their seats, placing the chairs opposite her so that she would be facing them both, and unable to see past them. The only light in the cell came from a lit torch in a bracket up on the wall. So the two men were literally all she could see, now; their faces cast in shadow.

"Tell us, who from the Court – or close to the King – have you had dealings with?" asked Thomas Cromwell, who then unrolled a sheet of parchment to write down her answer.

God was watching her. She could feel it the moment she placed her hand on the Bible. "The Exeters," she answered. "Lady Ursula Pole. Cardinal Reginald Pole." The names tripped off her tongue, and after each one she tried to see Cromwell's reaction. But the shadows made reading his face impossible, and all the more disconcerting.

She fell silent, and for a moment all she could hear was Cromwell's quill scratching at the parchment. He had the light behind him, and only he and Cranmer could see what was being written down. Then, he paused and the quill fell still.

"Did you have contact with Bishop John Fisher?" Cranmer asked.

Elizabeth thought about it carefully. The old man was going to be in trouble, but she was under oath now. "Yes, Your Grace," she answered. "He came to me with Sir Thomas More -" she paused as the two men turned sharply to face each other. "- But he told me in no uncertain terms that I was a silly girl and ought to cease and desist with my treasons." She could feel the disappointment radiating from them, and inwardly, she rejoiced.

The silence. The wait for the next question. "What about His Grace the Duke of Clarence?" asked Cromwell. "Did you have any contact with him? Or were any of your followers acting on his behalf?"

Arthur Tudor, he was the Duke of Clarence now. It took her a moment to remember that. "I did not speak with him, and he never came to see me," she explained. "But Lady Ursula Pole worked for him, and she was in constant correspondence with him."

The scratching of the quill was frenetic, now. It seemed to go on for a long time, and Elizabeth was certain she had not said that much. Finally, it stopped again.

"I believe that Clarence and Lady Pole were involved in an affair. Is that right?" asked Cranmer. "When he first returned to London, the King was displeased to learn of improper relations between them. Can you shed any more light on this?"

The small triumph of rescuing Sir Thomas More died instantly. They knew that she knew, and she knew they wanted her to spill it all. "That is correct, my lords," she answered. "But the Duke returned to his wife. Ursula was devastated and heart broken. But she kept her hopes of reconciliation alive because he wanted her to stay in touch, even after she went to work for the Exeters."

"She was invited back to Arthur's house, was she not?"

"She was," Elizabeth answered quietly. "She stayed there a few times. I believe that she loved him, and wanted him to be King. Maybe she felt that if she helped to get him there, then he would love her again?"

Cranmer cleared his throat, signalling to Cromwell that he had a question. "The Exeters were also visitors to Arthur, were they not?"

"Yes, they were," she said. "But they were at the Christening on the night of the rebellion. They were not-"

"We're aware of that," Cromwell interjected. "Tell me, do you know who Exeter was keeping in touch with at Court?"

"There was one in the Queen's Household," Elizabeth answered. "She was about the Queen every day, but I do not know what passed between them."

"Her name, please?" Cromwell asked, his voice was tense; eager.

"Lady Jane Seymour," she answered immediately.

There was a brief scratching of the quill as the name was jotted down on the parchment. Once it stopped, Elizabeth braced herself for what was coming next. But, to her pleasant surprise, there was a scraping of wooden chair legs against the flagstones and the two bulky shadows in front of her rose to their feet and bid her farewell. On his way out, Cromwell instructed the guards to move her to a cell with light, and fresh food and water. She had earned her reward.

* * *

><p>Anne sighed as Lady Jane dropped the silver bowl she was carrying. "What is wrong with you?" she asked irritably as the echoes of the clatter faded.<p>

Lady Margaret bent down and picked up the fallen bowl while Jane trembled visibly. "Forgive me, Your Grace," Jane stammered, before retreating into an ante-chamber.

Anne rolled her eyes at Jane's retreating back and sat back down in her comfortable chair by the fire. Mary was at her side, as always, and they had been enjoying a light meal together before Jane disrupted them with her clumsiness.

"She's been like this ever since she got back," observed Mary with a frown. "Dropping things, stammering, and turning bright red if anyone even looks at her."

Anne turned to the spot where Jane had vanished, thinking her over. "I don't know," she said. "Either she is unnerved by what happened, or Henry really has taken her as a mistress and she is too ashamed to be near me."

Mary carefully placed the wheaten bread she holding down on a silver plate on her lap and took Anne's hand. "I am sure the King is faithful-"

"It doesn't matter," Anne interjected. She was learning from Catherine. Humility. Grin and bear it. It made her want to cry all the more. "Really," she added. "It matters not," To distract herself she picked up another piece of the bread and dipped it in the fresh jam that the kitchen staff had made especially for her. It was delicious; she couldn't get enough of it and it even chased her insecurities away – if only for a few minutes. "Do you not want that bit any more?" asked Anne, pointing to Mary's plate. "I'll have it if you don't want it."

Mary smiled brightly. "Waste not, want not," she said, happily handing it over to Anne. "You seem to have developed a rather special liking for wheaten bread and jam, if you excuse my saying so."

Anne gulped down her mouthful with effort. "It's too early to tell," she said, once she was decent. "But, that being said..." her words trailed off as a smile spread across her face. "No, I shall say no more, sister." Instinctively, her free hand ran down the front of her perfectly flat belly. She could feel it in there, and she was already four weeks late for her courses. This time, she needed no physician to confirm her condition.

"Madam."

Anne was jolted out of her day-dreams by Margaret Shelton hovering over her. "Yes, Madge?"

Margaret held out the palm of her hand, where a gold ring glittered. It was one of Henry's. "Lady Jane dropped this," she said quietly, placing it in Anne's free hand. Despite everything, despite all the effort Anne put into Queenly dignity, the confirmation of her fears made her want to break down and cry. Their passionate reunion seemed over when it had barely begun.

* * *

><p>Arthur awoke shortly before dawn. The hour at which the night was said to be the darkest. He rolled over in his bed, and threw his arm protectively around Catherine's shoulder as she slept on. The chamber was pitch dark, but for the embers of a fire glowing in the hearth, and even they were dying their final death. He shut his eyes, but sleep had deserted him for good, now.<p>

He looked up at the canopy of the bed, and thought about recent events. They had proven themselves to the King. They had raised the army, and quelled the rebellion. But Henry's last words still haunted him. "You are to blame." They were Henry's last words. Clear in their meaning, but completely unspoken.

Sometimes, he would wake up in the small hours, and he would reach far back into his youth, to that day long ago when he rode out of Ludlow all by himself. That night, he had looked back over his shoulder. He could remember Anthony Denny waving a sad farewell to him before the darkness swallowed him. That night, all alone in the Welsh wilderness, he had sealed his fate. That night he also got as lost as a fart in a whirlwind. Even all those years later, he couldn't help but wonder whether he ever did find the right track again. Now those people want to make him a King. It defied his comprehension but made him a dead man walking all the same.

Sometimes, when he awoke in the early hours, he'd reach back that little bit further, into his childhood. When he was a boy, his father would give him impromptu lessons in Kingship. Sometimes, Henry VII had taught him, your family is your enemy. Sometimes, the filial garden will need weeding. Back then, in what he now knew to be the innocence of childhood, he had never expected to be the weed and Henry the reluctant gardener. His was never going to be the blood that enabled the Tudor Rose to flourish.

As the first rays of dawn pierced the darkness he knew that they had come for him. He could hear the portcullis being raised outside. In his mind, he could hear the conversation happening right now, down in the courtyard, between the Halberdiers and his groundsmen. They had come for him, and he wanted to be ready for them.

He rolled out of bed, and pulled on a clean shirt, and warm breeches. Over his shirt, a simple black jacket of wool. Warm to keep the chill of his cell at bay. The Tower will be draughty, even in summer. Once dressed, he leaned down to kiss Catherine's cheek.

"I never stopped loving you," he whispered in her ear.

Catherine stirred, but she did not wake.

Encased in a great cradle, shrouded by thick hangings, Owen slept on. A little baby oblivious to everything. Owen would have no memory of him. For the first time, a pang of genuine regret and sorrow gripped Arthur by the heart and pulled hard. He steeled himself, and drew back the shrouds. The dawn light was enough to see by. The baby's face, relaxed and peaceful in sleep; he committed every detail to memory. Arthur picked him up, and shushed him softly before he could begin to cry. He squirmed with a strength that always took Arthur by surprise. So alive, so reassuringly solid.

Somewhere deep inside the house, a door opened and footsteps echoed through the hallways. They were almost at his heels. The nursemaid woke up from the pallet she slept on, but Arthur pressed a finger to his lips to silence her, balancing Owen carefully on his hip to do so. Then, he returned to cradling his little bundle of perfection. A kiss on the baby's cheek, and it was time to go. As he slipped from the room, Arthur – just like he did all those years ago to Anthony Denny – pulled a ring from his finger and handed it to the confused nursemaid.

"Give him this," he instructed her. "To remember me by when he is grown."

He left the one with one final backwards glance at the cradle. Owen must have gone straight back to sleep. Arthur turned and walked down the gallery outside the nursery. He paused outside Lady Mary's door. She will be a mother to Owen. A damn fine one, at that. Arthur smiled; his once recalcitrant step-daughter had just given him the strength he needed to do what he had to do next.

He descended the stairs, and found them waiting for him. The warrant was about to be read out, but Arthur stopped the man. He didn't need to hear those words read aloud. He was escorted to the barge moored outside. He took his seat between the two armed guards, and looked back at his bedchamber window. Just behind the glass Catherine slept on. Just like all those years ago she will wake up alone. Just like all those years ago, he couldn't bring himself to say good bye.

* * *

><p>The mood in the Queen's Privy Chamber was solemn. News of Arthur's arrest had disturbed the Ladies, so they sat in silence, gathered around the Queen as they all worked at their embroidery. Anne was dressed in a fine, dark grey and navy silk gown. Sombre, but off set by a large, glittering diadem on her head. Her raven dark hair tied up in a neat bun. The fire blazed merrily in the hearth. But that was as far as the cheer went.<p>

She couldn't think why, but her hands trembled badly as she tried to thread her needle again. To disguise her jittery nerves, she placed the needlework down, and tried to smile at someone, anyone. She thought of initiating a conversation, but no words would come. The silence was tense, awkward.

Anne was about to give up and make a fresh start on the needlework, when Lady Margaret suddenly appeared in the doorway. She had company. Two armed guards were behind her, along with Charles Brandon, and Thomas Cromwell. Anne's nerves jarred as she got to her feet.

"My Lords," she said, her voice trembling with nerves. "Why have you come?"

She looked around at her women in confusion before turning back to the Duke and Cromwell. Charles took a roll of parchment, and smoothed it out. Holding it before his face, he read aloud:

"Your Grace, I have here a warrant for the arrest of Lady Jane Seymour," he said. A gasp of shock rolled through the assembled women. "She is to be escorted to the Tower where lodgings have been prepared for her, according to the King's pleasure."

Anne turned to the woman at her left. She seemed to shrink deeper into her gown. Her whole body frozen with fear. Anne, however, felt nothing. Only days ago she had thought that Henry was having an affair with her. Now, only pity. A horror-struck pity for Jane. Lady Jane Boleyn helped her to stand up. If Anne wasn't Queen she too would have helped her. The sight was beyond pitiable. She was like a child. A scared, confused child who just got savaged by the friendly family pet.

At the door the men took over, and led Jane away. But as her pale face vanished into the gloom, she looked back at Anne. The fear in her eyes burned itself into Anne's mind.

"Your Grace."

Anne turned to see Mary at her elbow.

"Come on now," she said. "That's enough for today. You heard what the Physician said. No drama until the baby quickens."

In all the commotion Anne had almost forgotten that her pregnancy had been confirmed that day. But even this one ray of hope seemed to have come at a high price. She turned without argument, and followed her sister into her bedchamber.

* * *

><p>AN: Apologies for posting the wrong chapter earlier. It's been a long day.


	24. Where The Grass Is Greener

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this.

Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four: Where The Grass Is Greener.<strong>

Almost alone, Henry watched, exhausted and fretful as Thomas Cromwell edged his way around the Presence Chamber door. The Usher had already been in to announce him five minutes before. Thomas looked a little surprised to see the Chamber so empty. Normally, it was a hive of Grooms, Pages, and Servants. But Henry had dismissed them all especially for the meeting he was about to have. Arthur's private business, and in turn Henry's, would not be allowed to become gossip among the common servants.

"Master Secretary," Henry greeted him, waving him inside. "The Queen will not be joining us; she is indisposed. Please, take a seat."

Henry gestured to the chair beside him on the dais, where Anne usually sat. The atmosphere was odd. Everything felt out of place, like the world had suddenly up-ended itself. The windows had been shuttered against the darkening skies, and the candles flickered, accentuating the empty places where people once stood.

"I trust the Queen is well, Your Grace?" he asked, prompting a nod in reply. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief that Anne was pregnant again. But they had business to conclude; painful decisions to make, before they could all begin to truly celebrate the impending arrival. Henry likened it to cauterising an infected wound. Soonest done, soonest mended.

Cromwell seemed to be thinking the same as he reached into a bag at his side, and produced two small stacks of letters, neatly tied in red silk ribbon. "These," he said, holding up the first. "These were found in the home of Lady Ursula Pole."

Henry flinched at the sound of her name, and the betrayal she'd pulled over him. He took the letters, and recognised Arthur's handwriting straight away. They even bore his brother's seal, and his name was scrawled untidily across the bottom of each letter. He looked at the dates.

"He carried on writing to her even after I forbade him?" asked Henry, looking over the letter at Cromwell. Hurt. "I ordered him to return to Catherine, which he did. But he carried on writing to this traitoress?"

"It seems he did," replied Cromwell. "I also have her replies to him, which were found at The More, in the Duke's private office."

Henry didn't say anything, but he held out his hand for the second lot of letters. "A hunting party," he eventually read aloud. "At the same time Princess Elizabeth was born, Arthur was hosting hunting parties for all of these people?"

He sounded bewildered. Henry wanted none of it to be true. But the hard evidence was all in front of him. He already knew that Arthur and Ursula had had relations, of course. But Arthur had kept in close with her, and the Exeters; he kept himself too close to them.

"Your Grace, there is no evidence here to suggest that he was involved in the rebellions – just that he was friends with those that were," Cromwell explained. "He has been foolish."

Henry looked at him. "Perhaps I have been foolish," he said. "We knew this would happen, and I should have kept him close, where he could be guided." He paused, and sighed deeply. "I cannot deal with him now, Thomas. I don't know what to do about him." Another pause while Henry wrestled with his feelings, but he soon gave up. "What else have you got for me?"

Even Cromwell seemed relieved that the subject of Arthur had been dropped. "Even more bad news, I'm afraid," he said. "This Priest, Edward Bocking, he is a close friend of Lady Exeter. He gave her some dried Pennyroyal, which was passed on to Jane Seymour, who put it in the potion used to ease the Queen's pains during her last pregnancy."

Henry's body stiffened. "You mean, he killed our last baby?"

Suddenly, Henry remembered it all. Anne's sickness had been keeping her up all night. She had been tired out, so he gave Lady Jane some instructions for a concoction of his own making to help her. "Did Mistress Seymour know what she was doing?" he asked, feeling physically sick as he recalled Courting her.

Cromwell shook his head. "She asked no questions," he replied. "She was being controlled by Lady Exeter, and you know Jane's nature. She asks nothing; just does what she is told to do. People like that can be as dangerous as they are pleasing."

Tears were welling in the King's eyes, and Cromwell had the decency to pretend not to notice. Henry got to his feet, and poured them both wine from a silver ewer on a nearby cabinet. He was trying to distract himself, and divert the full enormity of what was happening. Then suddenly, he realised something.

"Arthur disliked Jane intensely," he said to Cromwell as he handed him the wine. He wasn't sure why that was important, but he felt it should be known. "Now, this Priest – he seemed to be pulling everyone's strings. I need to know who he really is, who he's been in touch with, and whether there was anyone controlling him. Report back to me when you find out. Speak to Barton again, she should know. Then, proceed against Barton, Bocking, and Lady Exeter. Leave the others for now."

The meeting came to an end. They drained their glasses of wine before Cromwell bowed out of the Presence Chamber. Henry found himself alone again. Even alone with just his thoughts he could no more decide what to do about Arthur. He was not involved, but too close to those who were to go unnoticed, and unreproached. Blinking through the confusion, Henry called for a Groom to come out from his hiding place with a pen and some ink. When all else failed, he had to write to Catherine.

* * *

><p>People expected her to fall apart. When she saw the way the groundsmen, the servants, and the maids sometimes looked at her, it was if they wanted her to cry and wail. She did when Henry left her, but that was different. Although this was another fight; it was a totally different set of rules and Catherine knew she had to be stronger, calmer and more stoic than ever before.<p>

For the first few weeks she conducted her business as usual. She received messengers and visitors, and she over-saw the care of her infant son. She swept through the galleries to supervise the maintenance of the Castle, and she even found time to take up some of Arthur's old duties towards the welfare of their tenants. But all the time she was waiting for just one thing. Word from Henry that she could visit Arthur, and it came almost a month after his arrest.

She packed a hamper, gathered some warm blankets, and set off at once. Lady Salisbury had left her employment following her daughter's disgrace, but Lady Mary along with the Duchess of Norfolk had stepped up to fill her vacant position. They would be left with Owen, who was far too young and too vulnerable for a journey into the cesspit of London. Besides, she thought, Arthur didn't deserve to see their son after the way he sneaked off in the night with those guards without bothering to wake her. It was far too reminiscent of his first disappearance for her to be any other than briskly furious with him. Yet, beneath her calm exterior, she was frantic with worry, and consumed with a devastating love for him at the same time. If there was one thing that Arthur had a talent for, it was stretching her emotional range to ever more dazzling proportions. By comparison, Henry had been an open book – anyone's for the reading, and plain in its text.

Sir William Kingston led her up to Arthur's cell, up in the Garden Tower, enthusiastically detailing Arthur's Tower routine. As befitting his rank, he had the run of quite a large space; as well as the use of the gardens for an hour each morning, in the afternoons after his meal, and again in the evening after his supper, and before bed. She was shown into a generously proportioned chamber, but the door was locked behind her; a timely reminder that despite the comforts, it was still a prison cell and he was not a free man.

He appeared from the main room, and bowed politely to her. He was dressed in a fine cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the back of which had come untucked from the low waist of his breeches. His dark hair had grown, the curls a bit of a sorry tangle, and his chin dark from stubble. He looked like he'd been spending the nights on a bench somewhere insalubrious. Even his boots had been ditched in a corner, and he was walking barefoot.

All her anger melted away as she took him in. "Arthur," she sighed. "Rise. Come and kiss me."

She heard a sigh of relief; he had expected her to be angry. He probably expected her to slap him again, like she did the first time he reappeared. He even managed a small smile as he wrapped his arms eagerly around her. He held her firmer, more closely than he ever had before. Catherine realised then that he wasn't just nervous, but scared.

"I am a fool of a woman," she said into his shoulder, turning her face so she could kiss his neck and cheek. "No matter what scrapes you get into, I cannot stop myself from hopelessly loving you."

Arthur sobbed and laughed at the same time, giving her another squeeze before pulling back and leading her through to the main chamber. He had a window large enough for the pair of them to sit beside, and see out over the Garden that gave this tower its name. However, it didn't change the fact that the locals called it "the Bloody Tower." Ever since two young Princes – Arthur's uncles, no less – lodged there, and vanished, it gained a macabre reputation.

"Thank you for not being angry with me," he said, flushing slightly. "When the guards came, I-"

Catherine held up a hand to quieten him. "Save your excuses," she curtly told him, making him look at her all shame-faced. Once again, he had weakened her. But she had to remain business like. "Listen, I am staying in London until this gets sorted out-"

"You mean until I am executed," he dispassionately corrected her.

Disguising her impatience, she continued as if she had not heard him. "I said, I am staying in London until this gets sorted out. First, I am to see Master Secretary Cromwell, and then I shall be in a meeting with the King and Queen. Together, we'll see if we cannot think of something."

Arthur shrugged. Catherine aimed a firm swat at his thigh, trying to coax some enthusiasm out of him. "Your life is as stake here," she snapped.

Arthur laughed. "Don't you see? Henry cannot let me live!" he retorted hotly. "This will happen again, and it will keep on happening. If Henry – God help him – raises a tax; which Kings must do if they want their realm to make a profit. Or if he closes a Monastery, or closes a local school that is no longer viable. People will feel the injustice ten-fold, and they'll all be singing the same song. Let's get Arthur on the throne; he's bound to be better, more just, more liberal, more Catholic. More whatever it is they think that Henry lacks, because the grass is always going to be greener on the other side." He paused to catch his breath, before adding; "They are merely the symptom; I am the cause."

Catherine let him have his little outburst. It sounded as if he'd been storing it up for some time. She knew about the letters he had written to Ursula Pole. She knew that he'd been foolish, and that it was partly his fault that he was in that straight. But even without all that, it could still happen again. Each rebellion costs innocent lives; innocent lives that would stack up over the years, all because of one man. Although she had no plan, she knew one would come. She got up and kissed his cheek, once he had settled down.

"Stand up," she said.

He looked at her quizzically, but did as he was told. She turned him around and tucked the back of his shirt in. "Take better care of yourself," she said, a note of admonishment in her voice. "Do as your gaolers tell you, eat properly, and shave. Do something about your hair, as well. Don't be walking around barefoot, either. Keep clean and tidy at all times. Get to bed early, and sleep well. I need you looking your best."

Arthur turned his head so he could see her fussing over his clothes from the tail of his eye. "Yes, mother."

She withdrew her hand, but only to land a playful slap at his backside. "I mean it," she laughed, despite their dire situation. "I am in to see the King first thing tomorrow. He will be in good enough cheer because of the Queen's pregnancy-"

"She's pregnant?" he asked, surprised.

"That's right," Catherine confirmed. "He will be more inclined to be generous, and family minded. I will do my best to bring him here so that you can both talk things through. It's our best hope."

She finally bundled him into a semblance of neatness, and looked him up and down. "That's better," she said, approvingly. "Note how you look now, and that is how you should look when the king comes. And if he does come, he is the King – not your brother."

She knew she sounded like a mother scolding manners into a slovenly child. But after his eighteen years of feral living, he'd become lax and lazy in polite society. But now he needed to look sharp and remember from where he came. She kissed him briskly on the cheek, ignored the urge to bed him there and then (she knew she had developed a debilitating soft spot for her "piece of rough" husband), and left reluctantly, leaving him with the promise of a return visit soon.

* * *

><p>Queen Anne awoke, refreshed and revitalised, from her afternoon lie down. There was some wheaten bread and light ale left at her bedside for when she woke up, which she ate with relish before wrapping her gown around her shoulders. She chose on the fur lined ermine gowns, that swept along the floorboards as she walked. However, as her sister came bustling into the chambers, Anne noticed how dark it was outside.<p>

"How long have I been asleep for?" she asked Mary.

Mary gave her a rather sheepish look. "About seven or eight hours," she replied.

Anne gasped. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You needed the rest," Mary countered. "Especially after all this..."

"Mary, what I needed to do was lay down the new rules," said Anne, reaching for a roll of parchment on a nearby table. "Listen carefully, because with Lady Rochford, you are charged with implementing this. No one is to accept anything from anyone outside my household. Not so much as a stray flower. Everything, especially foodstuffs and herbs, that are brought in must be reported to Sir Anthony Denny, along with the names of who supplied the items. I know it sounds as though everyone is under suspicion, but tell the Ladies this: that if something should happen, then they will be immediately eliminated from any enquiries, and the real culprits found immediately."

Ever since that idiot Seymour girl had misplaced her trust in others, Anne realised that she too had been far too trusting. She should have known; picked up on the signs instead of just assuming she was sneaking off to the King's bed. Well, that had changed. Keeping your enemies close serves no purpose at all unless you watch them.

Mary took the paper. "I think we all understand why this must be done, Anne," she reassured her sister. "But I will explain everything, don't be worried. Anyway, the King came to see you."

"What?"

"The king," replied Mary, taken aback at her sudden snappish tone. "He came to see you."

"You should have woken me the moment he came!"

"He asked us not to."

"Explain the new rules later; get me dressed now," Anne instructed. "Arthur's attainder passed through Parliament today, and Henry will be distraught. I must go to him right away."

Mary called for help from another of the Ladies, and Jane Rochford was soon in and helping out with a clean gown.

"You don't really think the King will execute his brother, do you?" Mary asked, pinning Anne's hair up carefully.

"I honestly don't know," replied Anne. "One moment Henry is resolved to it, but then he dissolves and his will desserts him. He paces up and down, tears out his hair, just thinking and thinking about it constantly."

Lady Rochford slipped a fine damask gown over Anne's head, and straightened the whole ensemble out before reaching for a simple French hood to complete it. Mary, meanwhile, had lapsed into silence, her expression shadowed by sadness. "Give him our love, Anne," she said. "For I wouldn't wish our worst enemies to be in the position he is now."

She found him in his own Privy Chamber. There was a gaggle of Grooms and servants loitering in the outer galleries, well out of Henry's way, which suggested they had been dismissed for the rest of the evening. When Henry needed to be alone, it was never good. He was a people person. He loved attention, banter, and making good cheer with his staff. The way the men looked at her, those dark looks, were silent warnings that the King's mood was volcanic.

Inside, it was dark. Only a few candles flickered near the far walls, well away from the soft furnishings. Henry was huddled down low in his chair, swathed in furs to keep out the chills as the fire died down. His face, badly illuminated by the glow of the embers, looked tear streaked and puffy. Every few seconds, there was a sniff. Otherwise, her gazed vacantly into the hearth.

She didn't think he had noticed her arrival, despite the soft tapping of her shoes against the floorboards. But without moving, or even shifting his gaze to look at her, he spoke from deep within his swaddling. "You have come to tell me to kill my brother, have you?" His voice was cold; devoid of emotion like he was spent and empty.

Anne didn't say anything in reply. She moved over to him, and positioned herself behind his chair so she could lean down and wrap her arms around his neck. "I would never dare tell you what you must do," she replied, kissing his stubbly cheek.

He tried to resist her hug. But as she moved to the front of him, blocking his view of the miserly fire, he trembled. The first chink, and then another. Before long, he was sobbing uncontrollably in her arms. "I can't do this," he choked, burying his face in her bosom. "I can't, but I must."

She took to rubbing his back, running her hand underneath the cloak he was wrapped in, and caressing him. "Ssh" she soothed him, but letting him vent his pent up hurt at the same time. "Let it out, and let it go," she whispered.

As she held him, her eye roamed over the items on the small writing table at Henry's side. Quills, ink, and an unsigned death warrant. She could guess whose.

"Come to bed, Henry," she said as his sobs finally began to subscribe. "You need to rest."

He went to protest, but she silenced him with another kiss. "Come on," she coaxed him. "I'll get your grooms in to take care of you."

He lifted his head from her lap and gave a docile nod. She kissed him again before leaving him still lying across the furnished bench. Once outside, she picked out Henry Norris – the King's most trusted Groom – to go in an see to him. Meanwhile, Anne had decided to pay a visit to Thomas Cromwell. He was a man of many resources, and she had a feeling Henry would be needing all of them in the weeks ahead.


	25. The White Tower

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is always gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of these characters, and certainly not the TV Show.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five: The White Tower.<br>**

Edward Bocking's cell was buried deep beneath the earth; in the bowels of the Tower itself. From his dark, dank confines he could hear the screams coming from the rack morning, noon and night. He could hear the living flesh being singed, eviscerated, dissected; piece by piece. The sounds and the smells were a special kind of torture unto themselves. But that Cromwell had been a smart man. He knew that it would be enough to make him sing like a canary when his time came. Bocking prayed for forgiveness for his weakness in breaking long before so much as a heated metal tong had been waved in front of his face.

But then, three months after his arrest, Cromwell returned. He had with him the Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, who looked fit to vomit at any second in his new surroundings. Maybe it was for that reason that Cromwell was the one who did the talking.

"You've been found guilty of High Treason, spreading sedition, and endangering the life of Her Majesty the Queen, and the unlawful killing of her unborn child," he read out the convictions from a scroll of parchment. "You will be taken from this place in two days time, and dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn. You will have your bowels cut out, your privy parts cut off and burned before you. Your body divided into four quarters, and your head struck from your body. The head and quarters to be displayed at sundry places according to the King's pleasure."

Upon hearing his sentence read out, Bocking suddenly lurched forwards and vomited violently. Cromwell had to take a swift leap backwards to keep his shoes clean. But for Cranmer, it seemed to be the final straw. He pressed a scented handkerchief to his nose, and rushed from the room gulping for air. Even Cromwell blenched at the mess seeping into the already filthy rushes on the floor.

"However," Cromwell stated once he recovered himself, "should you agree to certain conditions, then that sentence will be commuted down to beheading by axe."

"Anything," spluttered Bocking. "Anything at all!"

Cromwell smiled. "Good man," he replied. "The master butcher will be on hand, though. Just in case you get any funny ideas about last minute acts of disobedience. Sir William Kingston will be in in a moment to tell you all you need to know about it. Anything you need before you go out, ask him."

As simple as that, Bocking's life had been signed away. He was persona non gratis. Elizabeth, his lover, he knew would not be far behind him. After all he had done to remain invisible during their campaign, he should have known it would come to this. All he could do was use what time he had left to pray. He didn't care about those conditions, either. God couldn't make him immune to pain and humiliation.

* * *

><p>Not long after his attainder passed through Parliament, Arthur – as was his routine – waited by the door of his cell, ready for his hour of exercise out in the garden. He had finished his supper, and the night was drawing in. The sky grew steadily dark; the moon reached its zenith, and he gave up waiting and climbed into his bed. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he tried to think back over everything he'd done since arriving at the Tower, to see if there was some transgression that he was possibly being punished for? Because the loss of even small privileges in a prison seemed magnified to disastrous proportions. It was one less thing for him to look forward to.<p>

Not long after he'd fallen asleep, however, he was shaken awake by Sir William Kingston.

"Your Grace," he said in a loud whisper. "Gather your belongings; you're being moved."

Arthur rubbed the sleep from his eyes; confused. "What?" he croaked in a voice thick with disrupted rest. "Now? Why?"

It was obvious that Kingston had also been awoken for the task, "King's orders," he said. "You're to be moved out of the way."

"Am I to be taken out in the morning?" he asked; meaning, was he going to be executed in the morning.

Kingston paused as he packed up some of Arthur's belongings. A hesitation that Arthur did not altogether like. "I don't think so, no," he replied at length. "We must hurry, Your Grace."

The urgency in the Lieutenant's voice compelled Arthur to simply do as he was told. He got up and hastily dressed before following Kingston outside with his belongs bagged. Luckily, he travelled light when he came, so there wasn't much. Wherever it was he was led to, in the labyrinthine fortress, it was old, dusty, and abandoned long ago. Arthur felt dismay, more than anything. It seemed Henry was going to execute him in silence, on the sly, where few would notice his leaving the world.

* * *

><p>They had given him all the assurances that they could, but still Henry was troubled. He had gone over it and over it, he knew every detail, every part of it, but still he spent the night on his knees in prayer and contemplation of what he was about to do to his brother. God, however, remained silent on the issue of Arthur Tudor. God was sending a clear signal that Henry was on his own.<p>

Now, all he was left with was the paper work; all warrants of execution had to been signed. Lady Jane Seymour had been stripped of her title of "Lady" and banished to a Convent for the rest of her natural life. Ursula Pole, the same, and mostly out of respect for the lifelong service of her mother, Lady Salisbury; who had been broken by her daughter's treason. Henry could see the ripples spreading out on the surface of a once placid lake. The consequences just kept on widening.

There was nothing he could do, or was indeed willing to do, for the Exeters. He signed their death warrants without a seconds thought. Tomorrow. That was the date. It was also the date on Arthur's death warrant. The same for the silly Barton girl. There was another document that needed signing, but Henry wanted to get the next day successfully consigned to history before turning his attention to that.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and allowed himself ten minutes away from the warrants. Looking up, he saw a sight he thought that he would never live to see. Anne and Catherine sitting in the same room, drinking small ale and chatting lightly to one another. They were subdued, naturally. Everyone was tense, and their nerves were stretched as taut as bowstrings. Nevertheless, Henry rose from his seat to go and join them.

"Cate," he said, still not out of the habit of calling her by his favourite pet-name for her. "I just want you to know that Arthur's goods have passed to you now. You're the Duchess in your own right, and all his lands, titles, and possessions are yours."

Catherine managed to raise a wan smile. "Thank you, Henry," she replied quietly. "We will have to leave The More, so I am selling it. With your permission, I should like to use Ludlow for the next year. We will be gone by the time your Prince arrives." Next to her, Anne smiled, running a hand over her belly, where just the slightest swelling was now visible.

Henry nodded. "Whatever pleases you, Cate," he replied. "Tomorrow …" he trailed off, skirting around the subject of the execution. "I should like to be there. Not on Tower Hill, of course, but up in the Tower that over-looks it. I need to be sure that everything is done properly, otherwise I will not have a moments peace again."

Anne covered his hand with hers. "I understand, my love," she said. "Do what you must."

Henry replied with a kiss on her cheek. "You stay here, though," he instructed her. "But I need you to send your most trusted Lady down to represent you. I am sending Charles Brandon down to represent me. Maybe your sister could do it?"

Mary wouldn't like it, he thought, but she was stronger than she let on. All of the witnesses for the execution had been hand picked. They were their most trusted, faithful servants and kinsmen. Charles Brandon, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Boleyn, George Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Cranmer, and Henry Norris. Public access was to be severely restricted, as befitting a private execution. The Mayor of London would be present, but shunted to the back of the crowd. The Guildsmen, Liverymen, and a handful of apprentices from the city trades. They had to be extremely careful about who they picked. So, Anne agreed to send Mary along, too. They were all people they trusted to take the darkest of secrets to their graves if they asked them too.

"I will be there, too," said Catherine, placing her glass back on the table. "But I want to see him before though. Tonight."

Henry took a sharp breath. "I have something for him," he remembered suddenly. "I had my Physicians prepare a concoction of Valerian. If he knows about tomorrow's executions, he will be beside himself with fear and …" he broke off, struggling to articulate his own thoughts and feelings. "I want him to have a peaceful night."

Catherine rose to her feet. Their meeting had been concluded over an hour ago, and the day was ending. She took the Valerian from Henry's trembling hands. "Thank you," she said. "I will see you tomorrow, and everything will work out for the best." She meant it, as well. She would be on her knees in prayer all night to make it happen.

* * *

><p>The old White Tower; built by the one they called "The Conqueror" almost five hundred years before, was looking and sounding its age. In the moonlit galleries dust clung to the fine, inter-lacing network of cobwebs that shrouded the high windows; the smallest of sounds rose high and reverberated through the still, musty air. The great Norman Keep was a vision of grandeur gone to seed, a pageant of ghosts where great celebrations once lifted the mile-high roof beams. Catherine looked around at it all in wonder. One day, she thought, even the splendour of the Tudors would end up like this - decaying halls and cobwebbed glory, with some new breed of person standing in Henry's fine palaces, looking at the ruins and shaking their head in sadness for a by-gone age.<p>

Meanwhile, Sir William Kingston was fussing with a set of keys. There was never much call for him to enter that part of the Tower, so finding the right key was a tricky business. No one used it any more, and they hadn't for over a century. That was why it was perfect for their requirements. Eventually, Kingston found the right key. It slid into the lock, and the bolt slid back with a loud screech of protest that set Catherine's teeth on edge.

"Sorry about that, Your Grace," he said, bowing as she passed through the now open door of Arthur's new cell. "All the keys look the same."

"Thank you, Sir William," she replied. "I shall only keep you here for an hour - no more."

Kingston smiled. "Take your time, Madam. I am happy to wait."

Catherine walked into the unfamiliar rooms, clutching her flask to her chest as though it were a new born babe. It was filled with Arthur's favourite light ale, with the Valerian that Henry's physicians had concocted mixed in. If Arthur had got wind of tomorrow's executions, he would be needing it to sleep that night. She found herself in a small outer-gallery that led into a larger, and thankfully brighter, chamber – lit by a large candelabra suspended from the high, vaulted ceiling. Arthur was sitting with his back to her, hunched over a piece of paper with a quill in his hand.

"Husband," she spoke softly, not wanting to intrude on his private world. "It's me."

Arthur turned sharply to face her. "Cate!" he gasped. Then he was on his feet and in her arms. She had to place the flask down on a nearby table to return his embrace. "I was so afraid that you would not come."

He knew. "Why?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

Arthur let her go, and looked her in the eye. "Haven't they told you?" he asked. "It's tomorrow, Cate. I'll be put to the axe in the morning. That's why they have moved me here. So I cannot see the others going before me."

Catherine shook her head. "No, you have it wrong; I am sure-"

He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. "I appreciate what you're trying to do," he said. "But do not coddle me. Tomorrow, I will die, and I am at peace with it."

Catherine couldn't think what to say. So she kissed him deeply, and caressed his face. He had shaved, just like she asked him to. "I have brought you something," she said, reaching for the flask. "Get a glass."

He looked at the flask, and smiled. "You're so good to me," he replied as he fetched a goblet. "I only have one, though. You use it, and I'll drink from the bottle."

"No," said Catherine. "It's for you." If she drank it, she'd be out cold too. "I want you to have it."

Arthur looked as though he was going to protest further, but then seemed to decide that it was only wasting what little time they had left. He thanked her again as he offered her a seat at the table.

"Promise me you'll stay away tomorrow," he said, pouring out the ale. "If you're there, I will lose my resolve. I know I will."

Hearing him talk like that was making her nervous, fretful. "Please, Arthur," she said, but then her words failed her. She didn't have the vocabulary to express what she was thinking. "You are strong."

She watched as he drank the ale, but it would take time for the Valerian to take effect. "Here," she said. "Let me top that up for you." He needed it all. She would tip it down his throat if she had to; every last drop of it.

He laughed as she almost over flowed the goblet. "That's enough, Cate," he said. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

She raised a nervous smile. "Of course not," she said. "I just want you to … relax."

He gulped down a mouthful or two to siphon off the over-spill, and it finally took effect. He was relaxing. He sat down on the bed, luckily for her. His shoulders sagged, and his breathing was evening out as he grew sleepier. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief, but she was struggling to act naturally around him.

"I loved you always," he told her, knocking back more of the ale. "You know that, don't you?"

Catherine moved so that she was kneeling at his feet. "Here," she said, "let me take your boots off."

She was trembling so much that she struggled with the buckles and laces, but she got there in the end, pulling them off one at a time. By the time she had finished that, his eyelids were closing, he was getting weaker but struggling to remain awake. "What was in that?" he asked, nodding to the ale.

Her heartbeat hammered; guilt swelled in her. "Nothing, Arthur," she insisted a little too firmly. She took the goblet from his hands and poured the rest of the ale into it. "Here, quickly, drink it all."

The look he gave her as she raised the goblet to his lips crushed her. He turned his eyes to hers, large and doleful, expressing more than any words could. Obediently, he swallowed the potion, taking what he clearly thought was poison. Tears welled in her own eyes, leaking over her cheeks. "It's for your own good," she whispered. "Drink it. It's only a sedative."

He offered no resistance, and by the time the cup was drained, he grew heavy and limp in her arms. His eyes were closed, and he was in a deep sleep in her arms. She lay him down gently on the bed after managing to pull back the covers. She wrestled his breeches off, leaving him in just his cambric shirt. Once he was in place, and comfortable looking, she tucked the blankets around his chin. Once he was in, and slipping deeper into what she knew would be a blank, dreamless sleep, she sat with him. She smoothed back his hair, smothered the small patch of exposed cheek with kisses, and measured the rise and fall of his chest. He was oblivious, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p>The morning of the executions dawned grey and dismal. Henry sent up a silent prayer of thanks, for it would keep the morbidly curious commoners away from the Tower gates. Over on Tower Green the Exeters had already been put to death and the cannons fired their ear-splitting death knoll across the whole of the city. Henry looked down at the official list in his hands. Henry Courtenay first, followed by his wife, and the last name on the list: Arthur Tudor. His mouth ran dry as he turned to look out of the window.<p>

This was a different scaffold to the others. Tower Hill was reserved for private executions, and this one needed privacy like no other. At his side, Catherine shivered in the breeze from the open window.

"Why don't you sit down," he said, worried for her.

None of them had slept a wink. They had passed the hours of darkness in prayer and silent contemplation, just waiting for this moment to come.

Catherine shook her head. "Look down there," she said. "Everyone is in place already, what is the hold up?"

She was right. They were looking from a window on the second floor, and could clearly see that their carefully selected witnesses were already in place. The headsman was by the block, obscuring his axe beneath the straw. The Chaplain, for this occasion it was Thomas Cranmer, was in place, Bible in hand. He even had the prayers already marked out. Charles Brandon had draped his fur lined cloak over Mary Boleyn's narrow, trembling shoulders. Wiltshire and Rochford were seating by the back rail of the scaffold itself.

Finally, Sir William Kingston appeared followed by a small knot of armed Halberdiers, the blades of their weapons pointing towards another man at the heart of their formation. They were all getting soaked in the fine drizzle that seeped from the over-cast sky. Unconsciously, Henry reached for Catherine's hand, and squeezed it tight.

"Not long now," he whispered. "Stay strong."

Down on the scaffold he looked wretched as the Halberdiers parted, leaving him alone at the edge of the platform. Catherine stepped up closer to the open window, to hear what he said. To her surprise, he didn't say anything beside: "God save the King." Then Cranmer recited his prayers as the the prisoner knelt at the block. The headsman picked up his axe, shook off the straw and aligned the stroke with a well practised expertise. It was over in seconds. Both Henry and Catherine flinched and recoiled as the axe hit home. Then, it was over. They turned from the window, and listened.

"Thus die all England's enemies."

The headsman's voice was distant. Henry and Catherine looked at each other; pale and shaken. Henry gathered himself enough to speak first.

"I don't think anybody noticed," he said. "They would have raised an objection if they had noticed."

It was only the noblemen: Brandon, Norfolk, and the Boleyns who knew that the man executed on Tower Hill was really Edward Bocking. Cromwell knew, as well – it was his idea. So did Cranmer. William Kingston, and some of his most trusted servants had played their part, too. But all the others were in ignorance. None of them had met Arthur, and nor had they met Bocking. They would never know the difference. But it was their testament that would spread the word of Arthur's death, and throwing him the lifeline he needed to melt away into a private life, and never be bothered by the plots of others again.

Catherine smiled, visibly giddy with relief. "I think we got away with it," she said. "He will be safe now everyone thinks he's dead again."

It had been touch and go. So many what ifs? All it would have taken was for one person to spot the simple subterfuge, and their whole plot to save Arthur by faking his death would have been ruined. Henry leaned forwards to close the window, taking a long look at the broken body of Edward Bocking on the scaffold.

"Everyone's leaving," he remarked with a glance at the vanishing crowds of Guildsmen. The biggest risk was the Mayor, he'd met Arthur at Anne's coronation. So, they made sure he was well back from the scaffold and barely able to see a thing. "If they suspected anything I am sure they would have raised an objection there and then."

Catherine placed her hand on his arm. "Henry," she said, looking at him directly. "You have done all you can, now. We need to concentrate on how we're going to keep this secret covered."

It was so secretive, that they couldn't even risk telling Arthur himself until after they had successfully completed the deception. The guilt, the strain, it took on the few who were involved was terrible. Henry planted a chaste kiss on Catherine's cheek. "There will be a way," he assured her. "There's always a way."


	26. Back At The Beginning Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has taken time to read and review this story; I really do appreciate it. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this (especially not the song I have quoted. Copyright to that belongs to Noel Gallagher and his record company). Please read and review. Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six: Back At The Beginning (Epilogue). <strong>

Stop the clocks and turn the world around

Let your love lay me down

And when the night is over, there'll be no sound

Lock the box and leave it all behind

On the back seat of my mind

And when the night is over, where will I rise?

("Stop The Clocks" by Noel Gallagher and His High Flying Birds).

* * *

><p>Arthur awoke with a start.<p>

He heard the women's voices drifting in from the outer-chamber of the cell he was lodged in, and thought that he was still in a dream. Someone had opened his windows, letting the late afternoon sun shine bright through the windows. His senses jolted, and he did a double take of the windows. The was beginning to set. He had slept through the whole day; the day he thought would be his last.

The women continued to chatter quietly, but only disjointed words reached his brain. He looked towards the open doorway, but couldn't see anyone. He was meant to be dead. He swallowed, his throat dry and his limbs heavy. His gaze raked the room, and settled on the goblet on his bedside table, and he remembered it in Catherine's hands. He remembered her making him drink it.

Someone had placed a basin of fresh water at the side of the bed; his to wash himself in. Presently, however, he ignored it and disentangled himself from the bedclothes that had become twisted around his legs. His body ached as he stood up, and he wondered why Catherine had done that to him. For someone who dealt so honestly with others, he was left confused by her actions.

His moving about the chamber to get dressed must have alerted one of the women. "Arthur!" one called out. It sounded like Margaret, his sister. "Arthur are you awake?" It was Margaret.

To his surprise, Henry's voice answered her. "Give him five minutes, Sister!"

Then a third voice spoke. It was his other sister, Mary. "We must explain this gently..."

Then a fourth. "All has been done for the best; he'll realise that," said Queen Anne.

Arthur froze, stood like a statue half-way through pulling up his breeches, as his mind reeled. He must have had an audience for hours. As he listened, he waited for a fifth voice to sound; a heavily accented Spanish one. He wanted words with her, whatever was going on. But it did not come. He hastily dressed, and made his way outside. All of them turned to stare at him as he appeared. But, as he tried to catch Catherine's eye, she turned away. His heart sank.

"What's going on?" he asked, bewildered by the presence of his entire family in his cell's outer-chamber. "Why are you here? Private party?" The jest was a poor one, and elicited only a dark scowl from Margaret. Arthur sensed a lecture coming on.

Mary reached out a hand as Margaret rose to her feet, and whispered something he couldn't quite hear. Margaret, in reply, shot her a sharp look. "I said I'd be tactful, didn't I?" she assured her sister. Then, she turned back to Arthur. "It's all right, Brother. You've already been executed."

The others groaned. "Well, he had to be told straight, didn't he?" Margaret retorted hotly in response.

Arthur thought it was a joke. "Amusing, sister," he replied drily.

"No, really, you have. It was Henry's idea," explained Margaret with a nod towards the King who was sitting with Anne nestled in his lap in the far corner. She was visibly pregnant now, he noticed.

"Well, actually, it was Cromwell's and Anne's," Henry corrected her, peering out from behind Anne's shoulder. Anne beamed at him.

"What?" he gasped, feeling faint.

"Don't you see?" asked Mary, looking gently up at him. "That dreadful man was executed in your place. Everyone thinks you're dead, so no one will ever be able to exploit you like that again."

"Oh, come on, Arthur!" Henry sighed as he gently nudged Anne aside. "We just copied your original idea and modified it a little. The very man who threatened your life died in your place-"

Arthur finally gathered his wits and picked up his jaw from the floor. "Yes, but how?" he asked, stumbling back against the wall before he fell down. "How did you get a condemned man to die in my place? What about his execution? Who was it, exactly?"

Henry grinned. "It was that Edward Bocking," he explained. "He died under the name Arthur Tudor. However, officially, Edward Bocking was granted a pardon, and exiled to Ireland. So we don't have to worry about formally executing him."

"If his family come looking for him," Anne chipped in, "then we say he's been forbidden from contact with them. Or that we have never seen him before in our lives."

Arthur was still reeling from this revelation. "So, I am dead again," he said, more to himself than anyone else in the room. Slowly, his brain registered the fact that this was a good thing.

"We've got it all worked out, Arthur," said Henry. "You're to be given a new identity, just like before. Then you're to be employed by Catherine, when she settles in at her new home, in a new town. She will find a capacity for you; a Chamberlain or something. Something that will require you to live in the same house as her."

For the first time, Catherine looked at him. He grinned from ear to ear; relieved that they would still have a way of living together. "But what about the household staff?" he asked. "They'll know it's me."

"Some do know about this," said Margaret. "People we can trust, and they will be in your household. Beside them, get locals from your new town. They'll never know it's you."

"Once you're both settled at your new house," said Henry. "The act of attainder will be reversed by Parliament, and it will be declared that you're no traitor. There will be no dishonour attached to your name."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He desperately wished there was some other way for him to express his gratitude with something more than just words. His eyes misted over with tears as he looked at them and wondered how he could have left them all behind in the first place, all those years ago.

But, there was bound to be a catch. "I think you should remain here at the Tower for a few months," said Henry. "Just until everything settles down, and this business is forgotten. Then, while Catherine is in mourning for you, you will stay for a year with Margaret. That will be for the best, I think. You must do as I say, Arthur."

Henry gave him a stern look. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied, nodding. "I am yours to command, you know that."

Margaret laughed. "Oh I'll keep him in line, don't worry about that Harry!"

The matter was settled. Henry, Mary, Margaret and Anne all got up; they had business to attend to. Also, they realised Catherine and Arthur would need privacy. Once they were alone, and Henry gave the orders for Arthur's doors to be left unlocked, they decided to take a walk around the Great Hall.

"Why didn't you speak to me?" he asked, looking sidelong at her as they walked. "I wanted you to."

Catherine looked sorrowful. "When last I saw you," she explained. "You looked at me as if I was feeding you poison. You fell into a deep sleep in my arms; it felt like killing you."

He had to admit, he was rather upset that no one had told him any of this. The first time around, it had been his decision to go. This time, the decision was made and carried off without so much as a prior consultation. "I thought that you were," he relied. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Catherine stopped, looked at him straight in the eye. "Like you told us the last time?" she said. Touché, he thought. "Arthur, we had to save you, and make it as simple as we could." She nodded towards the chamber they had just emerged from. "Your mother died in there after giving birth to the child she had to replace you. So just you remember some of the sacrifices we have made for you. Not just today, but in the past."

She resumed pacing around the old Hall, but Arthur – feeling chastened – remained where she left him. "I'm sorry," he said to her retreating back.

Catherine paused, looking at him over her shoulder. "This time, you're leaving and staying with us at the same time. Make the most of it."

For once, Anne was almost grateful for her term of confinement; a welcome break from the tumult of the Court. The only drawback being her last good bye to Henry. There was always a sense of finality surrounding it; a feeling that it could be the last time they meet face-to-face. No woman liked to dwell on the dangers of child birth; that was an unacknowledged space at the back of every new mother's mind. However, it manifest itself in other ways. Through the tenderness of that final kiss before a man and his wife went their separate ways, or a lingering embrace.

* * *

><p>Anne remained positive. "It will be all right," she promised him. "We're both strong and healthy." She was referring to both herself and the baby. The baby that had fighting inside her for weeks, now. It was why they brought the date of her entering confinement forwards.<p>

Henry looked deep into her eyes, and kissed her one final time. "I'll pray for you," he assured her as they parted.

The women were inside already. The fire was lit, and the chambers aired and waiting. She smiled and waved to the Courtiers who'd come to witness the big event as Henry circled his arm around her waist. Together, they entered the darkened rooms. He wouldn't stay for long; male presences in the room made the air impure for the birth. This was an exclusively female world.

However, he was still reluctant to part from her. "This is it, then," he said, glancing around. It was warm, and the air thick with incense. "Remember, I love you and I love our baby."

Anne laughed, kissed his cheek. "Go," she said. "When I see you again, it will be with a Prince in my arms."

* * *

><p>As one confinement began, another one ended. The rebellions ended, memories faded, and no one bothered to try it again. Arthur's attainder was quietly reversed, but he was still legally a dead man – there was nothing they could do about that. But it lifted the taint of treason from Owen, and allowed for his wardship to pass to the King. His future would be secured, and Arthur had even had proposals for a contract of marriage between Princess Elizabeth and Owen, just to neutralise any claim that he could have used against him. But that was for the future, and Arthur knew well that anything could happen.<p>

Outside, Margaret was waiting for him. Catherine had just left, with Owen in her arms. Convention dictated that she still wear widows reeds; something that had generated several in jokes. He would see them both again soon. It was never going to be a normal family life from there on in. But it was definitely better than being dead.

She was standing in the sunlight on the door steps. Her red hair made orange in the sunlight, and her arms open to embrace him. He rushed over to her, and hugged her tight; breathing in lungfuls of clean air – or as clean as it got in London. Finally, he was walking out of the Tower through the front gates, so many months after being brought in through Traitors Gate. When they parted, they looked at one another for a long time.

"There's someone else here, too," said Margaret, tilting her head towards the closed carriage that would be taking them away to the countryside of Oxfordshire.

Arthur glanced over her shoulder, and could just see Henry and Mary waiting for them. He grinned. "Come on," he said, "let's go."

Henry rode with them as far as the outskirts of London; the Queen was due to deliver the baby at any moment and he couldn't be too far from her. But as he left them to the remainder of their journey, he turned one last time to Arthur.

"This time, make sure you stay in touch," he warned him.

The girls smiled, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "Would I dare not to?"

By the time they reached Oxford, Arthur knew that Catherine would be setting up at Ludlow. Her arrival would cause a big fuss among the locals, but as soon as she was fully settled, it would be safe for Arthur to join her without attracting any more attention. For him, that moment could not come quick enough; as much as he loved the company of his sisters. Ludlow was where it all began for him. He didn't realise it before, but it was where the long journey of he and Catherine really started, and now he was returning. It felt as though he had come full circle.

It was on a damp morning that the first messenger from the Palace for a long time finally arrived. He and Margaret were enjoying their breakfast in the Solar when the finely dressed man was presented to the Dowager Queen of Scotland. Arthur, however, ducked quickly into an ante chamber to listen in without being recognised.

"The King's Grace sends his kindest regards to you, his sister," the man declared formally, "and is proud to inform you of the birth of his son, Prince Henry. Delivered by the Queen three days passed at the Palace of Greenwich at three o'clock in the afternoon."

Hidden in the closet, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. The whole of England sighed with relief.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's second note:<strong> Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, and thank you to Birdman45 for the plot bunny that started it all. It's been greatly appreciated. Also, I can only apologise if it seemed like I was ignoring the advice of readers to match up Elizabeth and Owen much sooner than I did. But the ending was one I had in mind right from the start, and matching up those two to make Arthur's trouble melt away would have taken that plot twist away. Also, apologies for re-uploading the chapter, but I got the name of Anne and Henry's son incorrect. It's Prince Henry, not Arthur. Thanks again!


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